One Bad Day
by Rhoder
Summary: Dora has lived in Gotham her whole life and is accustomed to the rampant crime and corruption. Her life gets worse when Black Mask takes over the city. She thinks all hope is lost but a new vigilante appears, calling himself the Red Hood. However, he's not your typical knight in shining armor. Dora must decide: does she dare fall in love with a revenge-driven killer?
1. Park Row

**Extended Summary:**

 _Twenty-two year-old Dora has lived in Gotham her whole life and thought she had grown accustomed to the rampant crime and corruption. Her life takes a turn for the worse when Black Mask takes over her neighborhood and kills her father for not paying protection money. Even worse, her little sister is hanging out with a bad crowd and using drugs. Forced to support her family in her father's place, and harassed and extorted by Black Mask's enforcers, Dora feels like she's in over her head and that all hope for a peaceful life is lost._

 _Then one night, a new vigilante saves her life, calling himself the Red Hood. However, Red Hood is not your typical knight in shining armor and he doesn't align himself with Gotham's resident Bat-Family. He proceeds on a rampage of blood and fire throughout Gotham, killing Black Mask's men without hesitation or remorse, only to put his own henchmen in their place and take over their illicit operations. He even attempts to kill Batman himself._

 _As Red Hood literally paints the town red, battling against both crime and Batman, Dora fights a battle of her own-whether or not to let herself fall in love with a revenge-driven killer._

* * *

"All it takes is one bad day to reduce the sanest man alive to lunacy… Just one bad day."  
\- The Joker

 **Chapter 1: Park Row**

The brakes of Dora's rusty old Chevy Impala screeched. The car slowed to a halt in front of the high school. It used to amaze her that the car started whenever she turned the key, but as of late she wasn't in a position to question it, she was just grateful it did. She pulled up the parking brake and waited.

PS 124 was the high school she had graduated from... What was it? Four years ago? It almost amazed Dora how much time had passed, but where someone else would feel nostalgia, Dora felt relief. She was glad that high school was over, glad she never had to go back into that building five days a week. High school was not fun for her. Going to high school in Park Row-Gotham's toughest neighborhood-wasn't fun for anyone. Most students were lucky to make it out alive.

The bell rang and a minute later hundreds of teenagers poured out of the dilapidated brick building and onto the worn and cracked pavement of the courtyard and patchy lawn in front. Some students loitered to chat, others hurried to buses, some to their parents' cars, just as many walked. Dora waited patiently for her sister Carla to appear out of the crowd. Carla was a popular girl, more than Dora ever was back when she attended PS 124, and loved to linger a bit after school to talk to her friends.

But twenty minutes later, the crowd of students and the fleet of buses and cars were gone and Carla was nowhere to be seen.

With a groan of annoyance, Dora pulled out her phone. She tapped in, _"I'm supposed to pick you up today, remember? Where are you?"_ Carla was grounded, otherwise Dora would have just let her walk home like she normally did. Several minutes passed and no reply. Dora tried calling her, but it went straight to voicemail.

"God damn it, Carla," Dora cursed, getting out of the car. She jabbed her finger at a group of kids still lingering on the steps of the school building. One was boldly rolling a joint for anyone to see. "Hey, you!" The scruffy kid pointed at himself, unsure. "Yeah, you!" Dora stomped up to him. "Have you seen Carla Montgomery around?"

"Who's asking?"

"Her big sister."

The kid took a moment to size her up, but Dora wasn't bothered. She and her little sister shared a likeness—brown hair, brown eyes, olive skin, and a short stature. Very short—five-foot-nothing. They were often mistaken for twins from a distance, despite being almost eight years apart. Dora knew their resemblance was part of the reason why Carla had teal extensions and more piercings than she could count. She didn't like being associated with Dora.

Dora adjusted her glasses, annoyed that the kids hadn't answered her. "Well? Do you know her? Where is she?"

The kid consulted his friends with a look. They all shook their heads. "Fuck off, bitch. I ain't telling you shit."

"Fine, I'll check inside," Dora said as she hopped up the steps, bumping in the kid. A small bag of weed fell out of his hands. Before he could pick it up, Dora snatched it up instead. The whole group of delinquents jumped to their feet, yelling and starting in her direction.

"Whoa there, hold on." Dora smirked, stepping out of their reach. She overturned the bag and a few buds fell onto the ground, becoming lost in the grass. "Save me the trouble of having to look for her, and I'll save you the trouble of having to pick weeds out of the school's lawn."

"For fuck's sake, would someone just tell the bitch where Carla is? That's the last of my stash," one of them said. There was a round of grumbling, until someone finally spoke. "Heard Carla went to meet some people on Park Row and West 52nd, at the bodega."

"Meeting who? Doing what?"

"Fuck if I know, lady. She ain't _my_ sister."

An address was enough, so Dora decided not to push further. She zipped up the bag and tossed it over her shoulder, letting the stoners scramble over themselves to retrieve it. She got back in her car and drove off.

Another person would have hesitated to go because West 52nd Street was in the bad part of town… but the whole neighborhood Dora's family lived in was bad. Gotham's Park Row was thirty square blocks of bleak hopelessness, drenched in despair. The highest crime rate of _all_ of Gotham's boroughs, a shooting or two happening every week, drugs being sold on every corner, prostitutes turning tricks along every sidewalk. Not a great place to grow up, but somehow Dora had managed to get by without getting into too much trouble… her little sister Carla, however, wasn't holding up as well.

When Dora arrived at the corner, she parked the Impala on the curb, wondering what Carla needed from a bodega this far away from their apartment.

 _Fuck._

It occurred to her that the only way Carla could have gotten this far from school by now was if she had ditched the last few periods of class—at least.

Dora's instincts told her she didn't even need to check the bodega, so she rounded the corner, and looked into the alley. She found exactly what she expected—her fourteen-year-old sister. But then she saw something else...

A glass pipe expelling thick clouds of white smoke—in her sister's hands. She was surrounded by several men—not boys, but adult _men_.

One of them had to be at least Dora's age, twenty-two, which was too old to be hanging out with a fourteen-year-old girl.

"Yeah, babe, that's it… Breathe deep…" One of them held up his lighter and Carla leaned towards the flame for another hit. "Hey! What the fuck?"

Dora had sprinted the distance from the curb to the alley and swatted the pipe out of Carla's hands. The pipe shattered on the concrete, and—just as Dora had feared—little white rocks were among the glass shards.

 _Crack? No..._ Dora could hardly believe what was happening. Smoking pot with her girlfriends was one thing, sneaking a bottle of wine from their parents' bar was another, but her little sister had ditched school to hang with a group older men and smoke _crack cocaine_.

"Dora!?" Carla reeled back, shocked. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"Me? You're grounded, so what are _you_ doing here? You were supposed to meet me after school!"

Carla cringed, remembering her promise. "Oh, fuck. Sorry, Dee, I forgot."

"Sorry? Were you even at school today?"

"Yeah, of course I was!"

"The _whole_ day?"

Carla averted her eyes. "Well, most of it…" At Dora's growl, Carla continued, "Look, it's not even a big deal. All my classes after lunch are electives anyway! I was there for the important shit!"

"You thought you were grounded before, Carla?" Dora shouted. "Well, now you're fucking _buried_! Let's go!" Carla didn't move. "I said _now_!" Dora grabbed her by the arm and pulled her toward the street.

"Dora, no! Stop!" Carla whined. "Stop being so lame! Leave me alone!"

One of the men grabbed Dora and pried Carla from her grasp. "Hey, back off! She said she didn't want to go!"

"Don't touch me!" Dora spat at him. She shrugged off the man's hand and reached for her sister again. "We're leaving."

"No, you're not, bitch." The man pointed at the broken pipe and crack on the ground. "You trashed perfectly good product. You owe us, puta."

Dora's anger faltered for a moment, displaced by a tinge of fear. These weren't teenaged stoners, they were members of the Latino Unified gang, judging by the neck tattoos and the black and orange clothes. She was grossly outnumbered and overpowered. She looked at Carla and saw that she was beginning to regret her choice of company.

But Dora regained her composure just as fast as she had lost it. "Fine." She reached into her pocket and pulled out a couple twenties—and her can of pepper spray.

The thugs all took a step back, but their apparent leader still seemed primed for a fight. He slid down his sunglasses. Her pepper spray wasn't so threatening now. With a nervous gulp, Dora tossed the money on the ground and grabbed Carla again. "There, keep the change. Let's go, Carla."

Fortunately, the men hadn't surrounded them, so Dora and Carla were able to walk backwards out of the alley and back onto the street. Before rounding the corner, Dora yelled, "Don't ever talk to my sister again, or I'll let the False Facers know you're dealing on their turf!"

"Dora, are you crazy?" Carla said once the thugs were out of sight. "You think they're afraid of your little can of mace? You're lucky they took the cash and let us just walk away without shooting us!"

"Every banger won't carry a piece since the gang war, with the GCPD getting all Gestapo and frisking anyone that looks at them funny."

"You could've gotten us killed, Dee."

" _You_ could've gotten _yourself_ killed, Carla. Hanging out with gangbangers? Fumando coca? You know better!"

In the car, the sisters drove in tense silence. Carla radiated typical teenage resentment amid her manic fidgeting—jerking her head around, scratching her arms, and bouncing her foot anxiously. Dora had done two years of nursing courses at Gotham University, so she knew the symptoms. She had gotten there too late—her little sister was high on crack and wouldn't come down for a while. She could only hope Carla hadn't developed a taste for it yet.

As Dora drove, anger, disappointment, and fear roiled in her chest, threatening to froth over as tears. How was she going to tell her mother that one of her daughters was skipping school to smoke crack with gang members twice her age?

* * *

悪

"Fuck no, I ain't going in there!"

"Either you go in there and _listen_ to what they have to say, or I tell Mami everything. _Everything_ , Carla. Cutting school, doing drugs, hanging with dealers, all of it."

"Fuck you, Dee," Carla spat. "Snitches get stitches."

Dora ignored that—or tried to. "Get straight. Or be another dumb bitch that gets buried in a ditch—by her gangster _'friends_.'" She used air quotes.

Carla had no retort, so she just sat there, fidgeting. Dora turned away. She rubbed her temples, wishing for a more comfortable chair and a warmer waiting room. The Park Row Free Clinic had a bare-bones, no-frills decor. White walls, white floors, gray accents. Despite the good work done here, it was a bleak place, one that wasn't accommodating for impatient people—like anxious teenage girls coming down from a crack high, trying to avoid going to a Narcotics Anonymous meeting.

Thankfully, people began showing up a few minutes later, entering the meeting room and taking seats in chairs arranged in a circle. Dora ushered Carla in and put her in a chair, whispering, "You need this, Carla. Make it through one meeting, and I won't tell Mami. You think I'm pissed? You have no idea about her. You're probably too young to remember Dad at his worst, but Mami didn't put up with _any_ of his shit and kicked his ass out. She sure won't put up with yours."

The look in Carla's face could only be read as " _fuck you_ "—pure distilled resentment. But she stayed in her seat and looked forward. As someone began to lead the meeting, Dora walked out, closing the door. 12-Step meetings usually lasted _at least_ an hour, so she wondered if she could go to her car and have a nap in the meantime.

"Nice to see you back." A slim white woman walked up to her, with gray hair and kind eyes. She wore glasses and a lab coat, a stethoscope hanging from her neck.

"Dr. Thompkins, hi."

"How many times have I told you to call me Leslie?"

"Sorry." Dora tried again, "Hey, Leslie. How are you?"

"Good, but I'm more concerned about how _you_ are. First you quit on me, then you don't see or talk to me for however many months, and now I see you at a Narcotics Anonymous meeting? Dora, should I be concerned?"

"I'm sorry, you don't have to worry about me. It's just... it's my sister Carla. She's... never mind. I've got it under control." The temptation to open up and tell Leslie everything was overwhelming, but Dora resisted.

"Very supportive of you to bring her to a meeting."

"If you say so," Dora said, while thinking, _Is it really support? Or am I just dumping her problems on a bunch of strangers so I don't have to deal with them myself?_

"How's your mother? And your other sister... Mercedes, right?"

"Mercy, yeah. They're both good."

"Your classes?"

Dora cracked her knuckles audibly. "Still dropped out, but come on-you knew that already." Leslie was a nice woman, but Dora could now tell her small talk wasn't genuine. It was a little too probing. She knew why. She had to say it. "I'm not coming back, Leslie."

Leslie smiled, more amused than annoyed that Dora had seen through her pretense. "It's hard to find good nurses around Park Row—even harder to find _great_ nurses, like you."

"I was never a nurse," Dora reminded her. "Only a student on work-study. An orderly."

"I beg to differ. You stepped up after the earthquake, risked your own safety to provide care and aid when the rest of the country abandoned this city. Then again during the gang war—the three most violent days in Gotham's history, you chose to help people rather than riot, loot, or just stand by. You saved _lives_ , Dora."

"I broke the law. _You_ broke the law by letting me do what I did."

"Those people needed _help_. They were in good hands. _Your_ hands. You could be something better than a bartender. Those hands should be _healing_ people, not pouring drinks."

Looking down, Dora couldn't help but curl her fingers into fists.

"You're an excellent nurse," Leslie insisted, "even though you're not certified. You're probably better than a legitimate nurse, and I daresay you could be more."

Dora had suffered Leslie's misplaced praise numerous times. Before, she had been proud to have her mentor's admiration, but now... she felt ashamed she couldn't live up to Leslie's expectations. Helping others and being selfless came at an expense. A personal expense. One she wasn't willing to pay any longer. "Leslie, I can't—"

Just then, the doors of the meeting room flew open. Carla came stomping out. "Fuck this, I'm out. I don't have a problem. Those saps can moan and whine all they want. I'm not hearing it," Carla said more to herself than anyone. She disappeared around the corner, not looking back at Dora.

"I'm sorry, Leslie, but my family needs me more than the Clinic."

Leslie nodded, understanding—or seeming to. "Take care, Dora."

Dora lingered only for a second to give Leslie an apologetic look, then ran off after Carla.


	2. Dues

**Chapter 2: Dues**

Dora's family owned the Montgomery Building, a small four-story walk-up with run-down studio apartments on the upper three floors and a bar on the first. However, that didn't mean Dora's family was well off. The bar, called the Alibi, had seen better days. Many people considered it the epitome of dive bars, an impressive title if one bore in mind the competition it had being located on Park Row—a street so derelict and dangerous it was nicknamed "Crime Alley" by Gotham's residents. The brick walls of the Montgomery Building were chipped, crumbling, and graffitied. Cracks and smudges covered the plate glass window on the first floor and the iron bars in front of it were red with rust. Inside the bar, the furniture upholstery was torn and threadbare, all the mismatched tables wobbled, and several of the billiard balls were cracked. The bathrooms reeked, the pipes groaned, and the taps had no pressure. The toilets clogged and leaked no matter how hard Dora and her sole employee Rochelle worked at fixing them.

Rochelle was the closest thing Dora had to a best friend. Originally, she was the Alibi's resident cook, back when it could have been considered a pub. However, since then the stove, the oven, and the deep fryer had all fallen into disrepair, and Dora couldn't afford to fix them all. Afterward, Rochelle transitioned into the role of bartender, which suited her just as well as cook had. She proved to be a better mixologist than Dora, and was especially popular with the male customers because of her blonde hair, sparkling green eyes, and petite stature. Her Australian accent and good humor enhanced that magnetic allure. That concerned Dora, given the nature of their usual clientele. The Alibi was the local watering hole for the typical minimum wage earners of Park Row, but also the gangsters, addicts, ex-cons, parolees, and the various other dissident riff-raff that plagued Gotham—not unlike the men Dora had found Carla hanging out with earlier that day.

"One of those dudes was older than _me._ Can you believe that?" Dora grunted from under the bar counter. She was tangled in hoses and pulling on a wrench. One of the beer taps had been leaking. Dora had called it in, but once the repair guy had realized where the Alibi was located, he promptly cancelled, leaving Dora and Rochelle to figure it out their own.

"How the hell did she even meet those guys?" Rochelle asked, cleaning some mugs.

"Believe me, I wish I knew. I _should've_ known. I'm supposed to take care of her." It was hours after Dora had taken Carla home from the NA meeting, but she was still reeling from everything that had happened. Working couldn't distract her like it usually did.

A tall girl with strawberry blonde hair sat across the counter, drinking a bottle of cider—Holly, Dora's only other friend. "Did you forget we live on Park Row?," she said.

"No." Hoping that she had fixed the tap, Dora stood and lugged a keg under the bar. "But somehow I managed to keep my nose out of trouble when I was her age… Mostly."

"Well, times have changed." Rochelle shrugged, helping Dora with the keg. "The Odessa Mob ran most of the neighborhood back when you were a kid, but Black Mask is in control now."

"I bet you anything those dealers were part of his False Face gang," Holly added.

Dora grunted, pumping the tap. "Most False Facers wear leather masks. Not these guys. They had on orange gear and 'L.U.' neck tattoos."

Holly frowned, concerned. "Latino United? Whoa. Those were serious gangbangers Carla was smoking with. They're street dealers for the Escabedo Cartel."

"I know, right?" Dora tapped the keg. "Hey, give it a go, Rocky."

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but I think I liked it better when Kosov and the Odessa Mob were in charge." Rochelle pulled the tap handle and poured a foamy mug of beer. "At least Kosov had standards. Kept the drug trade clean for what it was."

"Wouldn't say that Kosov had _standards._ " Dora looked at the mug in disapproval and poured it down the drain.

"Yeah, he was just small-time compared to Black Mask," Holly added. "The cops and the Bats had an easier time keeping him under control. He wasn't as ambitious as the Mask."

Dora let out an exasperated breath. "Black Mask is on a whole other level. The Bat Crew are barely making a dent in his organization."

"That's because they're not even trying anymore!" Rochelle shouted, frustrated, her Australian accent more apparent than ever. "Fucking Bats. The gang war scared them off. It was practically their fault it broke out in the first place."

Dora didn't agree, but she didn't say anything. Even months after the gang war, there was still debate and speculation among the whole city as to which of Gotham's myriad gangs lit the spark that ignited the war—but almost everyone agreed that Batman and his crew added fuel to the fire and hadn't done nearly enough to put it out.

Rochelle handed a new mug of beer to Dora. "How's this?" That brought Dora's mind back to the task at hand. The draft had a nice thin head of foam, so she took a swig. It tasted full and rich, so she was satisfied that she had fixed the tap.

Even still, she couldn't help but groan. She took a longer draw to calm her nerves. "That's still no excuse! Carla knows better!" She grunted, slamming her mug on the counter, making Rochelle and Holly flinch. "Crack? Really? I kept that detail from my mom, but she still almost had a heart attack when I told her how much school Carla's been missing. My ears are still ringing from all the shouting! The Alibi is barely getting by as is; we can't afford rehab, guys. I don't want Carla to turn out like… like…" Dora eyes locked with Holly's for a second and she couldn't finish the sentence. She switched her attention to Rochelle, who couldn't hold eye contact either.

Holly tried to come across as nonchalant by chipping the polish off her fingernail—which made the situation even more awkward. "Like me?" she finally said.

Dora exchanged a look with Rochelle. "No, Holly," she said hurriedly. "That's not what I meant… What I meant to say was… was…"

Holly shrugged. "Hey, I'm a whore, but I'm not—or ever was, or will be—a junkie. At least I got _that_ going for me."

"You know she didn't mean it like that," Rochelle said.

Holly reached across the counter and held both their hands. "Don't worry about it, Dee. At least Carla still has a choice. It's not too late for her to turn things around. Plus, she's got you two watching her back. Wish I had big sisters like you that gave a fuck while I was growing up."

Dora hoped it wasn't too late for her little sister. Although Holly had become a dear friend to Dora since the end of the gang war, she had to admit that she didn't want Carla to turn out like her. Holly was sixteen, only two years older than Carla, but despite that she was a dropout and already turning tricks in a dive bar, where all her clients were either thugs or dealers. Dora normally wouldn't allow Holly to find clients in her bar, let alone _any_ prostitute, but that decision wasn't up to her since Black Mask took over the racket.

Dora decided that had wallowed in her own problems long enough for one day. "Hey… how about you?" she asked. "How are you holding up now that Stan works for Black Mask?"

"Getting by, I guess." Holly sighed, stretching her arms behind her back. Dora heard her shoulders _pop_. "Yesterday was my first night alone in weeks. I'm on the rag, so Stan gave me a few days off."

"Why are you here then?" Rochelle asked. "You should be at home relaxing."

Holly smiled and shrugged. "I like you guys. Sometimes it seems like you two are the last decent people in this town."

Taking a moment, Dora could see how a short respite from sex work had refreshed Holly. Her pixie-cut red-blonde hair wasn't greasy like it usually was, her skin looked fresh, the bags under her eyes were all but gone—she wasn't even wearing make-up today and looked _better_ because of it.

But Dora couldn't stop the disgusted shudder that rippled throughout her body. She knew Holly's youthful vitality and natural beauty would be spoiled by the next john soon enough, if not Stan himself.

"Okay, Holly, I know you say you're not, but you are better than this. Why don't you just quit? You can stay with me till you get on your feet." Dora was prepared to move heaven and earth to keep Carla clean. If even a fraction of that effort could help Holly, then she could at least try.

"I appreciate the offer, but I'm in too deep." Holly ran a trembling hand through her short hair, making it stand on end. "Black Mask's goons have a gun to every working girl's head in one way or another."

Debt, drugs, family, shelter—Dora knew about the influence pimps typically held over their whores. She now regretted mentioning it, realizing she had reminded Holly about whatever leverage Black Mask had on her. Dora felt a pang in her chest as well. Black Mask had a leash on her too, a leash that could tighten into a noose if she stepped even an inch out of line. She knew the consequences full well.

The doorbell jingled as a group of men entered the bar.

"Fuck," Rochelle cursed aloud. Dora echoed silently, recalling something her abuela had once said. " _Tenga cuidado, mija. Sabes lo que pasa cuando se habla del diablo."_

Dora knew the group of men. Mikhail, Yevy, and Sergei—enforcers from the Odessa Mob that had joined Black Mask's False Face Society when he won the gang war. Mikhail and Yevy were both over six feet tall and 250 pounds, at least—your typical Ukrainian bruisers; young, cocky, boisterous, and quick to anger.

On the other hand, Sergei was much older and a little shorter, although not by much. He was the de facto leader of this little posse and the most patient, but only because age and experience made him relatively wise and level-headed—but he still wasn't a nice man by any stretch.

"Hm. New guy," Rochelle pointed out.

A fourth man had walked into the bar that wasn't usually part of Sergei's posse—a Latino, shorter, slimmer, and younger than the others. The absence of tattoos and sporty orange clothing suggested he was a member of the Escabedo Cartel, not the Latino United gang. During the gang war a few months ago, Black Mask had done something unprecedented in Gotham—he had brought together all the gangs and crews in the city and created a united criminal syndicate that ran the streets and answered ultimately to him-and only him.

"Ah, shit." Rochelle frowned. "Dee, I think you should split. Get out of here."

"Why?" She paid close attention.

Mikhail was relating a story to the new guy as they approached the counter. Once Dora realized what was being said, she felt the floor sink underneath her.

"So Black Mask lays into Monty," Mikhail said, smirk on his face, "just _pounds_ on the poor bastard, curb-stomps the man, makes his face look like a fucking Picasso or some shit. Asshole's head is bouncing off the ground, teeth are flying, ribs are popping… Pretty soon I just feel sorry for the guy, eh?"

Dora's stomach clenched and coiled tighter at every word.

"So I tell the boss to give him a break, y'know," Mikhail went on, "and so he does, and ol' Monty just lays there and whimpers and twitches, right? The guy used to be a fucking Marine, so we thought he could take a beating like a man, right? But I swear he pissed his pants! _Ah haha!_ Didn't he, Yevy? Pissed his pants like fucking little baby. Haha! Total pussy! No balls on that piece of shit! Pathetic!"

Dora's heart was on the verge of exploding. Her eyes stung painfully from stifled tears. The things they were saying—she wanted to retch. It was only Rochelle's hand grasping hers that kept her in check.

"Don't listen to them," Rochelle whispered. "Just leave. I've got this."

Mikhail's distasteful recollection was getting so out of line that the bar's already few customers started leaving, not bothering to settle their tabs face-to-face-they just left crumpled dollars on the table. But Dora couldn't bring herself to listen to Rochelle's advice and leave as well. Grief and rage had welded her feet to the floor. She took off her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose to stanch the tears trying to escape.

"And this is the poor bastard's daughter, she runs the bar now." Mikhail tapped his knuckles on the countertop. He looked at Dora, cracking a flirtatious and thoroughly unappealing smile. "Hiya, sweetheart."

In that instant, Dora wanted to claw his eyes out—she spent three whole seconds imagining it in explicit and _satisfying_ detail—but she forced herself to say, "Hi, Mikhail." Her stomach lurched. Bile burned the back of her throat, but she didn't let it show.

"A round of Valdushka, would ya, babe?"

"I'll get it," Rochelle offered, her eyes pleading Dora. "Take a break," she mouthed silently.

But Dora's pride wouldn't let her walk away. "No." She went to the end of the bar for the men's favorite imported vodka. Every step she took seemed to be on her own aching heart. The bottle was at the top of the shelf, so she had to use a step ladder to reach it.

"Ah, man, look at that _ass._ Umph!"

Dora's back turned to the ice and she almost dropped the bottle. It wasn't Mikhail that had spoken this time, it was Yevy. "What did I tell you, newbie? Gets it from her mother. Old Monty had a taste for them thick Latinas."

"The feisty kind too," Mikhail chimed in. "Priscan. Right, sweetcheeks?"

It took every last bit of strength Dora had to keep her face straight and her voice calm. "Yeah, my mom is from Santa Prisca."

"Mm-mm. What a piece Anita was back in the day," Sergei, the oldest, said with a throaty chuckle.

"Me, though? I like my bitches lily white," said the new Latino guy. He turned to Rochelle and smiled. If not for the filthy way he spoke, Dora might have considered him cute. "Hey, babe. Seen you around," he said to Rochelle. "Name's Rafael. Or Rafi. Your choice."

Rochelle gave him a polite but strained smile, not saying a word as she poured their drinks.

"What's your name, honey?" Rafi asked.

"Rachel or whatever," Sergei interjected. "But trust me, boy, this is the one you want a taste of." He slid onto a bar stool next to Holly. "Her name's Kitty." Both Dora and Rochelle knew that "Kitty" was just Holly's working name. "How's it going, baby? How about you take my friend Rafi out back and introduce yourself?"

"It's my night off, Sergei. Sorry."

"I'm sure you can make an exception for your favorite customer." He placed his large calloused hand on her thigh and slid it up toward the button of her jeans.

Holly swatted his hand away. "You lay a hand on me tonight, Sergei, and Stan will skin your ass tomorrow morning."

"Oh! Kitty has claws!" Rafi laughed. "Better be careful, old man. I heard Stan doesn't fuck around."

"Fuck off, spic. I ain't that old," Sergei barked. He shoved Holly aside and sat down in her barstool. Ungrateful little cunt." He tossed back his shot of vodka and slammed the glass on the countertop. "More, now."

Dora had enough. As inconspicuous as she could, she headed straight for the kitchen, then slipped out the back door.

Once she was in the back alley, the levee broke.

Her breath came in heaving gasps and tears poured out of her so fast, so hard, she thought her eyes would burst. Every sob was a quake that shook throughout her whole body and resonated in her chest, building up grief, rage, and hatred until she was on the verge of vomiting. Sergei and his boys never left the bar without at least a few catcalls at her and a dig or two at her father, but today was unprecedented and especially brutal. Was it just because they wanted to brag to the new guy? A sickening realization struck her like a bolt of lightning:

They were _proud_ of what they had done to her father.

A racking groan finally ripped itself free from Dora's lungs, but was muffled by Rochelle's chest as she wrapped Dora in her arms. Rochelle had come from nowhere and Dora couldn't have been more grateful. Gripping onto her tightly, Dora had never loved her more than right at that moment.

"Shh…" Rochelle cooed. "Don't listen to those dirt bags. Just ignore them."

 _Easier said than done,_ Dora thought as she soaked Rochelle's shirt with her tears. "Those… assholes… k-killed my… my father…" she stammered between sobs.

"I know, but…" Rochelle tried, but failed to find words to console her.

How could she? There was no hope, no justice, no _good_ in Gotham. All Rochelle could do was hold Dora until the ache became numb again and her tears filled the gaping hole in her heart _again_. That was all Dora could ask for—time, the only thing that seemed to work now. The longer no one brought up her father, the better she felt. It allowed her to forget—but even the slightest hint at what had happened brought it all back and darkened her whole world again.

It seemed like Dora and Rochelle were out there for hours, in the back alley, leaning against the graffitied wall next to the rusting dumpsters and dented trash bins. Above, Dora noticed the stars had disappeared, making the sky pitch black. From between the tightly packed multi-story buildings bordering the alley, Dora could only tell it was raining by the water dripping off the fire escapes and spouting out of the gutter pipes. A typical gloomy night in Gotham.

The bar's back door slammed open, startling both the girls.

"There they are," Mikhail said. "Boys, out back!"

Dora got to her feet, wiping tears from her cheeks and replacing her glasses. She sniffled. "Sorry, guys. I was on break. Do you need another round?"

"No, babe, not now," Sergei said as he lumbered out into the alley. "It's time for business."

"Business?"

"Yeah, your taxes are due," Mikhail said.

Dora frowned, confused. "But I got another week."

Mikhail shrugged, uncaring. "Something's come up. We're collecting early."

"Why?" Rochelle asked. "What's come up?"

"None of your fucking business." Mikhail shoved her aside. "Your boss just has to pay up."

Dora didn't even need to make a mental count of the bar's books. She already knew she didn't have the protection money ready. She looked over Mikhail's shoulder to Sergei. "Is he serious?"

"Over my head. Sorry, Dee," he said, shrugging. "The Mask wants you to pay up."

Dora was at a loss. "I… I don't have it, guys. I'm sorry."

Mikhail snickered and shared a look with Yevy and Rafi. "I'm sure we can work something out."

"Yeah, just give me another week like you're supposed to." The tenants in the apartments above the bar would have paid their rent by then.

"No, babe, I mean _now._ "

Mikhail took a step toward her. Dora took a step back—only to realize she was being cornered between the wall and a dumpster. She reached for her belt loop, but her keychain and its little can of mace weren't there. The dull ache of grief in her chest was replaced by a sharp pang of fear. Mikhail was a foot taller than her and twice her weight. What could she do?

She held her ground. "Back off, Mikhail." She tried to sound tough. Mikhail took a step and feinted. Dora flinched despite herself. "W-what are you doing?" she stammered, though she already knew.

"Offering you a discount." Mikhail closed in on her. He took away her glasses before Dora could stop him. The world faded away and all she could see was him, looming over her.

"No… don't." Dora turned away, reeling from his nasty vodka-scented breath. Mikhail didn't have it in him, he would never…

But he grabbed her chin and kissed her.

Dora kept her lips shut tight—as much to deny him the satisfaction as to stop herself from puking.

Mikhail pulled away. "Just do me this favor. It'll cost you nothing," he whispered into her ear, his breath hot and putrid. His hand slid down her body, going from her neck, to her shoulder… lingering for an extra moment on her breast… then her stomach, until he finally grabbed a handful of her butt. Dora felt as though he left a trail of slime the whole way. "Relax, baby. This could be fun for the both of us."

Dora had always been able to keep her mask on in front of these guys, but she couldn't stop the frightened whimper that escaped her lips or the fresh tears that streamed from her eyes. Clearly, Black Mask was forcing them to take the money was bullshit. The only reason why Mikhail wanted to collect on protection early was to leverage sex from her.

Rochelle wasn't faring any better. Yevy had cozied up to her in much the same way, ripping off her hoodie and cornering her against a wall. He pulled the tie out of her hair so hard she yelped.

Panic set in. Dora's heart beat so hard, her ears hurt. She didn't know what to do. She was frozen.

"Hey, Mikhail! Back off!" Holly's voice broke the illusion of solitude Mikhail and Yevy had somehow created. Dora remembered she and Rochelle weren't alone. "I said back the fuck off!"

"Why should I? I'm not done yet." Mikhail still hadn't let go of Dora's butt, so he gave it a firm squeeze. "I haven't even started." And to that, Dora squirmed.

"Look…" Holly sighed. "If you're itching for it that bad, I… I'll take care of you. No charge."

Mikhail guffawed, but backed off Dora a bit. "Ha! And why would I want your bony little ass instead of Dee over here?" He smacked Dora's butt for emphasis; she yelped in pain and disgust.

"Yeah, and I got myself a British girl that isn't a twig," Yevy sneered.

"I'm Australian, asshole!" Rochelle spat at him.

"Shut the fuck up." Yevy shook her. "You're a limey bitch all the same."

"I'm not…" Rochelle tried, but her words were cut off. Yevy's large hand encircled her neck.

"See, I would never give either of you any attitude like that," Holly said, a little too nervously.

"But I like it when they squirm…" Mikhail growled. He didn't notice.

Sergei chuckled, finally stepping in. "Don't knock it till you've tried it, boy."

"Yeah, Mikhail, why would you have her over me?" Holly asked, more believable this time. "You knew her dad. How he raised her. Dee's a total prude; I mean, look at her. She's probably still a virgin. _I_ know how to work a man. Tell him, Sergei. I take good care of you, don't I?"

Now without Mikhail's massive body blocking her view, Dora saw a debauched quiver of lust pass through the old man. He reached into his pocket and adjusted himself. "She ain't kidding. She's young but she ain't green; knows her way around a cock. _Tightest_ cunt on the block, too."

Mikhail took a step back, looking back and forth between the Dora and Holly. He lingered on Holly. "How old are you, Kitty?"

Holly sauntered over to Mikhail, dripping seduction with every step. "As young as you want me to be… _Daddy._ "

Mikhail cracked a twisted smile. "Oooh man, I like that. _Rrrr_ …"

"Hol—Kitty, don't…" Dora said out of reflex, but then she realized what she was condemning herself to if she tried to stop them. _Take_ _Yevy_ _instead, let Rochelle get away… I'll be fine._ But even as the thought crossed her mind, she doubted it.

"Don't worry about it, Dee. This is what I do for a living. Come with me, Mikhail." Holly waved him over on the way to the pub's back door. Mikhail let go of Dora and followed her, unbuckling his belt as he walked. "You're next," Holly told Yevy—as much with her voice as with her eyes. Yevy's grip on Rochelle loosened.

"You know what, Micky? Do you mind if I join in?" asked Rafi, the new guy.

Mikhail chucked. "What the heck, why not? I like the idea of double teaming the little bitch."

Holly stopped, hand on the door handle. "Hey, wait just a minute. I never said I'd fuck two of you at the same time." She tried to move away, but Mikhail grabbed her and bent her over a trash bin.

"Do you think we give a shit? Hold her down, Rafi."

"Here?" Rafi asked, but he had already grabbed what little he could of Holly's pixie short hair to rein her. She cried out in pain.

For an instant, Dora imagined her father lying on the pavement, broken—it was the same spot. She couldn't stand by and let that happen again.

"Let her go!" Dora cried. Before she could second-guess herself, she barreled towards Mikhail and Rafi, hoping to pry them off her. However, Sergei's elbow appeared out of nowhere and caught her in the neck. She hit the ground hard.

Lightning flashed and blinded her, but she heard no thunder. She realized that her vision strobed because her head had hit the concrete—most likely giving her a concussion. Only then did the pain set in.

"Kitty's doing you a favor, Dee," Sergei said above her, wrapping his hand around her neck. "Let the boys have their fun… or do you want it to be you instead?"

Dora couldn't have answered even if she wanted to, Sergei's grip was cutting off her breath, whether he realized it or not.

"Ah! No!" Holly screamed.

With her glasses gone, coupled with the concussion, Dora couldn't make out Holly's image clearly, but she could make out that her skirt was bunched up around her waist and her panties were around her ankles.

Mikhail dropped his pants. "Hold her steady, Rafi."

"No!" Dora managed to croak, and she heard Rochelle echo. Dora was completely overtaken by fury and desperation. She couldn't let more people she cared about be harmed in this alley. She squirmed under Sergei's grasp, found leverage, and brought her knee up into his groin. Sergei wheezed in pain and his grip around her neck loosened. Dora bit his hand as hard as she could. She heard a satisfying _crack_ come from Sergei's knuckles.

" _Argh!_ You stupid cunt!" Sergei ripped his hand out of Dora's mouth, but brought the other around in a backhand punch hit her straight on the jaw, snapping her head to the side.

Sergei replaced his grip around her throat with his remaining good hand, laughing. "Didn't know I was a southpaw, did ya, bitch?"

"Everything alright there, Sergei?" Mikhail asked. He had turned his attention away from Holly, so Dora felt that little distraction was worth the beating—they hadn't started. She tried to tell Holly to run, but she choked on the blood in her mouth. Sergei' punch had made her bite her tongue.

"Yeah, it's alright," Sergei told Mikhail. "Just beating some respect into this little spic." He looked back down at Dora and smiled. "You gonna piss your pants like your father?"

At the mention of her father, Dora cried out in renewed rage. She lashed out with all her limbs—punching, kicking, gnashing her teeth, clawing at his arm with her nails… but it was futile, every blow glanced off, ineffectual.

Sergei raised his fist. Dora stopped struggling and braced herself.

"Hey! Hands off the girls! Now!"

Sergei lowered his arm. Mikhail, Rafi, and Yevy looked around the alley. With them distracted, Rochelle and Holly both tried to wriggle away, but their captors kept a film hold on them.

"Who said that?" Sergei called out.

"Me."

Looking up because she was still pinned to the ground, Dora was the first to realize the voice was coming from above.

A man was perched on a fire escape. Dora could just barely make out a motorcycle jacket and faceless red mask—or was it a helmet?

"It's one of the Bats!" Mikhail shouted.

The masked man chuckled, his voice somehow both muffled and sharply clear. "I'm not one of the Bats," he said. To Dora's amazement, he almost sounded bored.

Drawing his gun, Sergei jabbed the muzzle into Dora's cheek. He signaled Rafi and Yevy to do the same to Holly and Rochelle. "Not part of Batman's crew, eh? Then leave, asshole, or we shoot their pretty little faces off."

The masked man stood up straight, rolled his shoulders, and popped his gloved knuckles. His nonchalant manner was gone.

"If you touch any of them again…" His voice took on a guttural undertone. "… I'll cut your dicks off and make you eat them."


	3. Seeing Red

**Chapter 3: Seeing Red**

Perched above them on the fire escape, the man with the red mask and motorcycle jacket rolled his shoulders and popped his gloved knuckles. "If you touch any of them again…" he growled, "I'll cut your dicks off and make you eat them."

Sergei scoffed. "This mook thinks he can make demands," he said to his fellow thugs. "Hey, dumbass!" he shouted at the masked man. "Look who's holding the guns here. You move a muscle and this girl's face is a fucking doughnut!"

It was the masked man's turn to scoff. He added a shrug. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

The next thing Dora knew, she was deaf and blind. All she could see was white and all she could hear was high-pitched ringing. Like flipping a switch, she had a skull-cracking migraine to add to her concussion, split lip, and bitten tongue.

A few seconds passed where all light and sound strobed, then Dora regained her senses. The masked-man must have used some type of flashbang and smoke grenade combo. Swirling smoke and shadows obscured the whole alley around her. She could only see Sergei because he was right next to her. Then she realized that Sergei had lost his grip on her… and his gun wasn't pointed in her face anymore.

"Ow! Fuck!" he cursed.

Dora blinked until she was able to make out Sergei grasping his hand in pain. His hand was bloody… and free of a gun. In its place was a knife.

 _No, wait… is that a… is that a fucking shuriken?_ She could hardly believe her eyes.

Sergei yelled something in Russian. The smoke cleared just enough for Dora to see Rafi, Mikhail, and Yevy—as well as Holly and Rochelle—all still recovering from whatever flashbang the masked man had used. The men aimed their guns around the alley, looking for him.

"I don't see him, old man!" Rafi said, letting go of Holly. "Where did he go?"

"I'm right here, buddy."

"Fuck!" Rafi cried. Lightning flashed as he was sucked into a cloud of smoke.

Without her glasses, Dora could only make out silhouettes—one brutalizing another, while yet another crawled away. She heard the sickening thumps of fists on flesh, grunts of exertion and yelps of pain.

Some of the haze finally cleared to reveal Rafi-on the ground, broken and beaten bloody. He was unconscious, wheezing, and missing a few teeth out of his gasping, gaping, and wheezing mouth. Dora recoiled, appalled. Holly did too, shrieking as she ran away. However, she only managed to run into Mikhail's arms.

"Shut that bitch up!" Sergei ordered. Mikhail obeyed and pistol whipped Holly, who went down hard. Her head lulled to the side, unconscious. Blood trickled from a cut on her eyebrow.

Before she even knew what she was doing, Dora had lunged toward Mikhail, but only stopped because a crunching sound. She had stepped on her glasses. Weighing whether if it was better to have her sight back against the good it would do thrashing Mikhail over her knocked out friend, Dora begrudgingly shoved her glasses on and stayed where she was.

"I warned you, didn't I?" That was the masked man speaking.

Although one lens of Dora's glasses was badly scratched, she was able to see that the masked man more clearly now. He had already moved on to trading punches with Mikhail—or rather Mikhail swapping one punch for every three from the masked man.

Dora took advantage of the distraction and went to Holly. She dragged Holly's limp body away from the brawling vigilante and Mikhail, scanning the alley for Rochelle, but couldn't find her or Yevy in the swirling smoke. Sergei had finally pulled out the shuriken from his hand. "Hang in there, Mick!" he shouted. "Once I find my piece, I kill this red-faced asshole!" He buried his hand under his arm to staunch the bleeding while he searched for his weapon.

The fight between Mikhail and the vigilante was absolutely brutal. Mikhail threw a punch at the masked man's face, one the vigilante didn't bother to dodge. Dora heard Mikhail's fist crack against the mask. The masked man grabbed Mikhail's fist and pulled it aside, crushing the bones in his wrist and hand. He twisted Mikhail's arm behind his back and Dora heard Mikhail's bones snap as he screamed in agony. The vigilante then jammed his foot in Mikhail's knee. Another sickening _crack_ reverberated in the air as the joint bent the wrong way.

Bawling like a child, Mikhail yelled in pain, "Stop! No! I'm sorry, okay! I'm sorry! Please! Stop! Please!" Then a backhand to his temple knocked him out cold.

"Enough of this bullshit!" It was Sergei's voice.

 _Blam! Blam! P-chew! P-chew!_

That was the sound of a gun being fired, Dora knew, but having lived on Park Row all her life, she also knew the tell-tale sound of a ricochet. Sergei had found his gun, but his shots had missed.

"Yevy! Get out your piece and nail this guy!" Sergei spat at his only remaining ally. _Blam! Blam!_

"What about the girl?"

"I don't give a shit! Just shoot that motherfucker!"

"Dora, come on!" That was Rochelle's voice, Dora realized. Rochelle burst out of the smoke from Yevy's clutches, and helped Dora pull Holly's body behind a dumpster.

"Rochelle, are you okay?" Dora asked frantically, looking her over, head to toe.

"Are you?" Rochelle gave her the same inspection.

Dora was bruised, bloody, and slightly concussed—but she still somehow felt lucky to be alive. Rochelle, however… and Holly….

"I'm fine, Dee," Rochelle said reading Dora's concerned look. "Better than you two anyway. Yevy never got a chance to hurt me. Whoever this masked dude is, he saved me. He saved _us_."

But Dora knew she, Rochelle, and Holly weren't safe yet. Smoke still swirled throughout the alley and obscured almost everything. She still heard gunshots and ricochets all around the alley, so running away wasn't safe yet. She knew nothing about the man with the red mask, but she was willing to bet he wasn't bullet-proof. This was Gotham, not Metropolis.

As if on cue, the vigilante spoke up. "Two down, two to go! Give up now and I'll let you live. Maybe. Probably. Nn-yeah, actually… I'm still thinking about it." He chuckled, menacingly. "Give me a reason to change my mind." The vigilante's voice had a metallic ting to it because of the helmet-like mask. But that wasn't what Dora noticed most. It was the masked man's persisting tone of playful nonchalance, as if this whole situation was just a game to him. Was he actually enjoying this?

"Shut the fuck up!" Sergei shouted.

Daring to peer around the dumpster, Dora saw Sergei firing off shots at the masked man, who ran around the alley, rolling and flipping like a gymnast to avoid the bullets. He reached the dead-end wall, but instead of stopping, he ran up the wall—as if gravity didn't affect him. Sergei and Yevy's bullets burrowed into the bricks where the masked man's feet had just been.

"You must've been doing this a long time, Sergei," the masked man taunted as he vaulted off the wall and onto the fire escape. "And you still can't aim worth a shit."

Sergei snarled, enraged. He reloaded his gun as fast as his mangled hand was able and fired at the masked man again as he climbed up the fire escape. Rounds ricocheted off the bricks and metal railing, and none seemed to land a hit on the masked man. He moved so fluidly, Dora noticed, amazed. Like a fish through water, a snake through grass, a bird through branches-a bat through darkness.

Rochelle saw that herself. "... the fuck, that dude's quick!"

"Yeah…" Dora watched his movements closely. She recalled the masked man saying he wasn't part of Batman's crew, but he certainly moved like he was.

Yevy reloaded and joined Sergei in another barrage of gunfire, though his aim wasn't any better. The masked man finally reached the top of the fire escape, ran along the ledge of the building, dove off, and somersaulted through the air.

He descended on Sergei and Yevy from two storeys above, the back of his jacket flapping—Dora couldn't help but think like the wings of a bird.

"Aaaah-oof!"

He landed on top of Yevy with a sickening crunch, who emitted an emasculated yelp. The masked man bounced to his feet, unaffected by the fall. He kicked Yevy across the face, ensuring he was knocked out. Yevy's blood glistened on his boot. He turned to Sergei. "Now it's just you and me, old man."

Sergei brought his gun around to shoot the masked man, but—Smack! Pow! Whomp! One, two, three blows. Sergei was disarmed and brought to his knees.

"Say uncle," the vigilante said, towering above him.

Sergei managed to smile, even with a fat lip, a broken nose, and loosened teeth.

"You think you've got me, son? You think you've beaten me, huh? Well, let me tell you something. I work for the Black Mask, kid. He's got the GCPD and the DA in his pocket. Sure, they'll arrest and book me, but guess what, asshole? I'll be back out before you take your next shit."

The masked man scoffed. "Wow, old man, I guess you're right. If I let the cops take you in, you'll just fuck the system and hit the streets again. Same goes for your low-life friends, right?"

He took a knee and leaned toward Sergei, his red mask so close to his face, Sergei's ragged breath fogged the glossy surface. "There's no permanent way to stop you, is there?"

"I've been doing this for twenty years, kid. I'll die before the law stops me."

"You know what? That's a great idea. I guess I'll have to kill you."

Sergei laughed so hard he began to choke. He quickly caught his breath and spat blood on the ground.

"Empty threats. That's the problem with you Bats," he wheezed, "you beat the shit out of us but you all can't commit. Can't finish what you goddamn start. You and your bat-buddies will never clean up Gotham for good because you're all a bunch of pussies, too afraid to get your hands dirty. You won't fucking kill me."

The masked man stood up, chuckling. "Did you forget already, geezer? I told you, I'm not part of Batman's crew."

"Then who do you work for?"

The masked man reached into his jacket and drew a gun, spinning it with a flourish. "Myself." He cocked it.

 _Pow!_

Sergei fell to the ground, a bloody red hole where his eye had just been.

" _Aeee!_ " Rochelle shrieked until her breath gave out, scrabbling away from the dumpster they were hiding behind until she hit the wall. Frantic and cornered, she heaved, trying to catch her breath, then finally vomited.

Dora didn't move from where she knelt by the dumpster, lucidly aware that she wasn't having the same reaction as Rochelle. She stared at Sergei's blood, flesh, brain matter, and skull fragments splattered on the ground just a few yards away.

But she felt numb. She felt nothing.

"Dora!" Rochelle gasped, having caught her breath.

Dora looked up from Sergei's corpse. The masked man stood over them. Lightning flashed behind his silhouette.

Her heart leapt into her throat. She could hear it pounding in her ears. This close she could smell him. The leather, the sweat mingled with rainwater, the gunsmoke. A shiver ran down her spine and she cradled a still unconscious Holly closer.

"Are you guys okay?" the vigilante asked.

"Dora, we have to go!" Rochelle shouted. "This man is dangerous!"

"Not to you," he said, holstering his gun and holding up his hands.

"You just killed a man!" Rochelle snapped.

"He deserved it," he growled back.

Hesitant, Rochelle approached Dora, without turning her eyes away from the masked man. "Come on! Do you have your phone? We have to call the police!"

The masked man shrugged. "Go ahead. I won't stop you."

Dora studied the man for a long moment, trying to gauge his sincerity. "Yeah, okay, Rochelle," she finally said, taking a step away from the vigilante but not without a last lingering look. "I'll call the cops, but not with you and Holly around. Getting into it with the police could cost your visa and really piss off Holly's pimp. He works for Black Mask."

"B-but... Dora..." Rochelle stammered.

"I'm sure she'll be fine, but take Holly to the clinic and get her checked out, just in case."

Rochelle's face was lined with concern.

"Just go, I'll sort this out," Dora insisted. After finally getting a look of affirmation from Rochelle, Dora hoisted Holly's limp body onto her back.

"If I don't hear from you in half an hour, I'm calling the cops myself," Rochelle said to Dora, but she was looking at the vigilante as she said it.

"Fine," Dora said, and she watched Rochelle shamble out of the alley with Holly on her back.

As soon as Rochelle and Holly were out of sight, the vigilante asked. "Are you alright?"

Dora glowered. "I said I'm fine."

The masked man reached out and placed his gloved hand on her chin. For some odd reason, instead of flinching, Dora made no move to stop him. He turned her head from side to side as she clenched her jaw tightly. Dora took the opportunity to inspect him as well. There were no face-like features on his red mask-only two glowing white slits for his eyes, with a furrowed brow molded above them. Dora could only assume he was assessing the injuries on her face.

With his thumb, he wiped some blood from her lip, making her wince. His glove was rough on her skin. "How's your head?"

Dora touched the back of her head, where it had hit the ground. There was a painful bump, but her hand come back with no blood. "I'll live."

"Yeah. You're tougher than you look. You know how to take a beating."

Irked, Dora spat blood onto the ground. The red swirled and dissolved into the puddle. "No woman should know how to take a beating."

"Good point," the masked man said, with a nod of respect. "Why did you stay? Could've ran off with your friends."

"You killed people on my property," Dora said. "I need to see this through."

"Not many people have the stomach for this." The man gestured at Sergei's limp, leaking corpse. "It's interesting that you do."

Dora's mind instantly rewound to all the times she had seen things bloodier and more gruesome than this. "I was here for the quake. And I worked at the Park Row clinic during the gang war. It got pretty ugly. Uglier than this."

"Must've, if this doesn't bother you." The vigilante stood.

"Wait..." Dora's throat was suddenly very dry. She swallowed, and amazingly her heart seemed to settle back into its rightful place in her chest. "What's your name?"

"Call me Red Hood."

"Red Hood?" Dora repeated. Strange name. It sounded familiar, but she couldn't remember where she had heard it before.

"Yep," he said, tapping his faceless red mask... helmet... thing. "So where's Monty?"

Dora froze at the mention of her father's name. "He's... dead." Though it was miniscule, Dora noticed Red Hood falter-something changed about the way he held his shoulders.

"Who's in charge of the Alibi, then?" He jabbed his thumb over at the backdoor of the bar.

"Me. His daughter."

"You? Really?"

"Yeah, me." Dora was almost offended by his reaction. Looking at her, it probably wasn't obvious at first glance but was it really so hard to believe her father was white?

"What's your name?"

"Dora."

"Didn't you just say you were a nurse or doctor or something?"

"I was in nursing school while I worked at the clinic, but dropped out to run the Alibi when my dad was murdered." Her eyes flickered to Sergei's dead body. "Long story."

"Make it short, then. Who killed him?"

"Black Mask. These guys helped him." She gestured at the unconscious men splayed around the alley.

"Didn't know Black Mask made house calls."

"It was just after the gang war ended. He had just taken over the Odessa Mob, and he wanted to see their... rackets for himself. He made an example of my father for the rest of the businesses on the block."

Red Hood actually seemed caught off guard. He hesitated a moment, fingering the chin of his mask. "What was Black Mask's cut?"

"A third, but Sergei and his boys rounded up to an even half to fill their own pockets. Why? What's it matter to you?"

"Because from now on you pay protection to me."

Did she hear that right? "What?"

"I said you owe _me_ protection money now," Red Hood said, deadpan. "Twenty-five percent, by next week."

Dora's jaw hung open. Was he serious? What kind of vigilante was he? Batman and his crew never asked for compensation for saving people's lives... they just did it. Why, no one knew, but nonetheless they were the guardians of Gotham-with varying degrees of success.

Red Hood seemed to have read her mind. "Oh, you thought I was some sort of hero or something? Sorry, I don't work pro bono."

This vigilante wasn't part of Batman's crew, she remembered him saying. He worked for himself. He had just saved her and her friend's lives from a bunch of thugs... and hadn't hesitated to kill one of them. No... _execute_ was a better word. But he was only asking for twenty-five percent off her books, so he wasn't as bad as Black Mask, or even Kosov before him...

And he had protected her. Actually _protected_ her and her friends from men intent on hurting them. So was that even a racket?

But Dora knew she didn't really have a choice either. After Black Mask learned about what happened to Sergei and his boys, Dora would need this guy watching her back. Cops seemed to be the least of this Red Hood guy's worries, and she didn't have a Bat-signal handy to sic Batman on him.

"Okay," Dora finally said, trying to project confidence.

"Good," said Red Hood.

 _Blam! Blam! Blam!_ Faster than she could blink, he had drawn his gun and shot Mikhail, Yevy, and Rafi each in the head. They were unconscious before, but there was no doubt there were dead now.

"What are you doing! They were already down and out!" Dora cried, recoiling but finding her back to a wall.

"What? You're going to start feeling sorry for them now? After they tried to rape you and your friends? Come on, I'm just making sure they don't bother you, or anyone else, ever again."

"You didn't have to do that!"

"I most certainly did," Red Hood said. "I have to send a message, make an example of these guys. Do me a favor and look away, will you?" He holstered the gun inside his jacket and drew his knife-a long Ka-Bar with a serrated edge. Dora recognized it because it was standard issue for the Marines; her father had owned a few.

"What for- _Oh my god! No!_ "

But Dora didn't look away. She watched Red Hood stab his knife into Sergei's neck and slice away the flesh. In seconds, he had cut through the esophagus, trachea, and arteries, and reached the spine. He wedged his knife between the vertebrae and twisted-SNAP! The head separated from the body completely.

Dora sat there, slack jawed, as Red Hood rifled through some trash bins, the blood draining out of Sergei's severed head until he found a plastic bag and stuffed it inside. "Now's probably a good time to call the cops," he said.

"You want me to what?" Dora asked, still incredulous at what she was seeing.

"I said call the cops. Tell them what happened here."

"You want me to tell them you killed all these guys?"

"Yeah, that shouldn't be too hard, right? You seem like an honest girl," Red Hood said, climbing onto a fire escape ladder, toting the bag holding Sergei's severed head. "And tell anyone who'll listen that Park Row and this whole neighborhood belong to me now. And if anyone tries to get in my way, they'll end up like this asshole and his buddies here." He stopped climbing for a moment to look back at her. "See you around... Dora."

Dora pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose to get a better look at him, but in the second it took her eyes to refocus, Red Hood was already gone.


	4. Blood Bath

**Chapter 4: Blood Bath**

Dora felt numb and cold. She stared at the corpses strewn across the ground, captivated by the macabre scene. She couldn't help but think back to what she had seen in the aftermath of the earthquake, and then again during the gang war. She had hoped to never see things as gruesome as all that again, but here she was, having just relived a microcosm of it all. She lost sense of time as the scene seared itself into her memory. She didn't know how long it had been since Red Hood had left the alley. The rain had stopped almost as soon as she lost sight of him, but the puddles remained.

Red puddles. Steady streams of blood oozed out of the bullet wounds in Mikhail, Yevy, and Rafi's heads, mixing with the blood still gushing out of the shredded stump that was Sergei's neck.

A shiver ran up Dora's spine, not caused by the cold. She spat onto the ground. Her own blood was lost in the red rivers that branched out over the alley's uneven ground.

Then the numbness began to fade and she started to feel... something. It took her a minute to realize what that feeling was. _Relief_.

Dora would no longer have to deal with Mikhail, Yevy, Rafi, or Sergei ever again. There was no doubt in her mind that Gotham was better off without them. Red Hood had not only saved her life and rid the world of a few scumbags, but it suddenly dawned on her that he had all but avenged her father. The men he had killed tonight did not murder her father but they were certainly complicit.

Did she really hate Sergei and his men all so much that their deaths made her feel good? Satisfied? What had she become?

What had Gotham turned her into?

A flash of lightning illuminated the alley for a split second. Thunder crashed shortly afterward, so loudly it resounded in her bones. But there was no rain.

Instead, she cried.

That sense of relief was gone, and disgust had finally blossomed in its place. Disgust not at the scene, but at herself. She was crying for the second time that night, but this time the tears weren't of grief, they were of shame. Her parents didn't raise her this way. Her _father_ wouldn't want her to relish in death, even in those responsible for his own.

Tears still streaming down her face, she looked down at her hands. She hadn't killed anyone, let alone touched any of the corpses, but she was still red-handed—literally. The run-off from the rain made it impossible to escape the blood. She knew she could wash it off, but for some reason she felt guilty. The blood hadn't stained her hands; it had stained her soul. She had _prayed_ for the deaths of these men.

Taking a deep breath and wiping the tears away, Dora steeled her resolve and convinced herself again it was all for the better. She stumbled back into the Alibi through the back door, still dizzy from hitting her head, the cracked lens in her glasses made navigating to the kitchen harder. After washing her hands of blood in the sink, she made her way into the office and slumped into the chair, exhausted. She rummaged around the papers on the desk until she found her phone. She smeared blood all over the month's receipts and invoices. Dialing 911 left red smudges on her phone's screen. She hadn't washed her hands well enough.

" _Gotham City Emergency Hotline. What's your location?_ " The dispatcher sounded bored.

"Park Row and Nolan Street. The Alibi. It's a bar."

" _Are you safe?_ "

"Yes... it's over now."

" _What's over? What's the emergency?_ "

"I just witnessed a murder. Or, uh... Murders? Four. I saw a man kill four people."

There was a pause on the other end. " _Can you describe the attacker?_ "

"Tall..." Dora was almost embarrassed to say what came next, but she said it anyway. It wouldn't hurt to be as descriptive as possible. "In, uh, really g-good shape," she stammered, recalling Red Hood's broad shoulders and chest—and the effortless way he moved. "He was wearing a red mask and a black motorcycle jacket. And he's armed. He has a gun and a knife on him." Nausea churned her stomach as she remembered Red Hood cutting off Sergei's head.

" _Wait, did you say he was wearing a mask?_ "

"Yeah, a mask, but more like a helmet. It covered his whole head. And it was red. He calls himself 'Red Hood.' "

There was another pause. " _Okay, it seems like we already have several units en route to your location. What's your name?_ "

"Dora Silva."

" _Is there anyone else with you?_ "

"No."

" _Okay, Dora, is this the best number to reach you?_ "

"Yes."

" _Do not leave your location. Do not touch anything. Police officers, detectives, and EMTs will be there shortly._ "

"Thanks."

" _I'll stay on the line until—_ "

But Dora hung up. Talking to a stranger over the phone wouldn't make her feel any safer. In fact, despite having just witnessed the murder of four men and the murderer himself escape, she already felt safe. The men that had been harassing her for months, the men that had killed her father... were dead.

* * *

悪

Dora was wet, cold, and shivering despite the mylar blanket and cup of coffee the EMTs had given her. If anything, the blanket was making things worse. Its foil-like surface reflected the strobing red and blue lights from the police cruisers, making the light bounce off the sterile compartments and equipment of the ambulance whose tailgate she was sitting on. The lights made her dizzy. It was probably more the fault of her concussion, but her broken glasses weren't helping. She took them off and popped the scratched lens out of the frame.

 _There._ _Now I'm only a little less than half blind,_ she thought, shoving her glasses back up her nose. She replaced the ice pack on the back of her head and flinched at the pain.

"You alright?" someone asked.

"I'm fine." The concussion must have affected her attention span. Dora's eyes and mind refocused on the two detectives standing in front of her. One was a big white man. Large and bearded, and sporting a fedora. The other was Latina, who looked like she weighed only half as much as her robust partner, though she was still a bit taller than him. It took Dora a second to recall their names. Detectives Bullock and Montoya.

"Okay, so let me get this straight," Montoya said, her eyes skimming her notepad. "The victims, who have been extorting you for months—"

"Years," Dora corrected. That's if they included Sergei and his boys extorting her father under Kosov's regime.

"Right, _years._ " Montoya amended her notes. "Those guys tried to sexually assault you, uh... 'gang-rape' you. Then out of nowhere, a man with a red mask comes down from the rooftops and beats them all up... Kills them each with a gunshot to the head, then as an afterthought, cuts off the head of their leader... Sergei, right?"

"Yeah, pretty much," Dora said. And it was true. Ninety percent. She had omitted Rochelle and Holly's involvement, but it was better the cops didn't know about them. "He calls himself Red Hood. And the guys he killed worked for Black Mask."

"Red Hood, huh?" Bullock scoffed, arching an eyebrow. "Great, I fucking knew it. We have another fucking Bat in town. As if we didn't already have enough."

Montoya frowned. "No, killing is not the Bats' MO."

"Every person this red mook has killed tonight was not just a criminal, but a mobster or a gangbanger, with career-long rap sheets. The Batman hates those types the worst. Plus, did you forget about Batman's girlfriend the Huntress? She wasn't above killing people when she first started out."

Montoya looked to Dora. "Did this Red Hood guy mention any affiliation to the Batman?"

"No," Dora said. "He was actually insulted when Sergei assumed he was part of the Bat crew."

"Then maybe he's not a vigilante," Montoya said, turning back to Bullock. "Maybe he's a rival gang-leader trying to take out the competition. We've had plenty of masked gangbangers. Orpheus... Tarantula."

" _Bah!_ You think this red brain donor is going to run drugs, guns, and hookers in Gotham? All on his own?"

Montoya shrugged. "Maybe he's got a crew. Orpheus and Tarantula each had dozens of thugs backing them during the gang war. And about fifteen years ago, there was a crew running around Gotham calling themselves the Red Hood Gang. Maybe they're trying to make a comeback."

"If he's got a crew, why's he doing all the wet work himself then? Huh?"

Montoya pointed back down the alley, where the CSIs were taking photos and cataloging evidence. The bodies still had not been moved, only covered by white sheets. "Maybe he's just good at it and gets his hands dirty so someone else won't."

"Maybe he just likes it, the sick fuck," Bullock added.

"Okay, good point. But whatever the case, nothing makes street-thugs fall in line better than a boss with a bite to match his bark. I mean, look at Black Mask. Not afraid to get his hands dirty—kills personally. And he runs this town. At least until tonight."

At that, Dora suddenly saw an image of Roman Sionis, also publicly and notoriously known as Black Mask, stomping on her father's chest with his $3,000 Italian loafers. She had heard her father's ribs snapping. She shook her head, dispelling the flashback while biting back the urge to cry again, but the panging had taken root. Her head and chest throbbed anew.

"Montoya, I really don't think this guy is going to have any buddies in the underworld," Bullock said, gesturing madly, "because he's fucking killing them all! The city _just_ survived a gang war! This mook is going to start another and get us all killed!"

Montoya shrugged again, pocketing her notebook.. "Hey, it's just a theory."

"Pardon me, detectives." A CSI technician had come up to them. His blue gloves were covered in blood. "We've finished collecting evidence. We're waiting on your command to bag the bodies and send them off to the medical examiner."

Bullock turned around to take one last look at the carnage in the alley. Although the scene was already chiseled into her mind forever, Dora couldn't help but look past his shoulder. The bodies had been covered with white sheets, but they were tinged with red at the edges. It had stopped raining, but in the time that it took the police to arrive, the run-off had rinsed away most of the puddles of blood that had transfixed her so tightly before.

By morning, Dora knew that it would look like nothing had ever happened back here. It had been the same with her father's murder. Even with its bloodstains invisible, this alley would haunt her for the rest of her life.

Bullock gave Montoya a quick glance, and in response, she nodded at the CSI tech. "Yeah, go ahead. Take them away."

Dora stared as the CSI tech removed the sheets covering the bodies. They grabbed them by the arms and legs and stuffed them into large black bags, a task that required two people. It was easier to pack away Sergei's body, given that his head wasn't in the way. Dora's mind flashed back to Red Hood stuffing the severed head into a plastic grocery bag he had pulled out of a trash bin.

"You know what bothers me, Montoya?" Bullock said to her, but his eyes were locked on Dora. "This girl says she witnessed these guys, the four of them, killed in cold blood. Gangland execution style. One of them had their head fucking _sawn off_ right in front her eyes. Yet... she's not a dribbling mess. Any other broad would've pissed herself."

Montoya gave Dora a long hard look, adding to Bullock's penetrating gaze. "Not shaken. Not in shock. Provided a detailed and coherent eye-witness account. Yeah, could've been rehearsed." Then without notice, Montoya's speech switched to Spanish, directed at Dora. "Sabes que todavía tiene que venir a la oficina y firmar una declaración formal? Hay penas para mentiras. Me entiendes, mija?"

Dora grimaced. That offended her, as if the detective thought she wasn't smart enough to understand her in English.

"No soy tu hija," Dora said bitterly. "But look. I'm a nursing student. Well, I _was._ And I've seen dead bodies before. Touched them. During the gang war a few months back, No Man's Land the year before, I helped out at the Park Row Clinic. Ask Dr. Thompkins. I saw a lot of Blue Boys hurt bad. Bad. I'm proud to say I helped a few. I'm also ashamed to say I saw a few pass away." She trained her eyes on Bullock-the Blue Boys were what the GCPD called themselves when the government had abandoned Gotham after the earthquake and they stayed behind to act as a posse of vigilantes. "I saw a lot of messed up shit after the quake and during the gang war, detective." A half-truth, Dora admitted to herself. She had dealt with wounded patients and some that had died on the cot or even on arrival, but they were mostly stab and bullet wounds—no decapitations, and hardly any cops. It all still haunted her, but she still hadn't settled on what she was feeling about Sergei and his men's deaths—and that shameful uncertainty bothered her more than actually seeing them killed.

"Okay, sweetheart," Bullock said, pushing Montoya out of the way, and putting his face directly in front of Dora's. She could feel his breath on her face and the heat from his cigarette, still hanging from his lips. She couldn't help but breathe in some of his smoke. Reminded of Mikhail, she frowned in disgust, but did not look away.

"I've been working for the GCPD for almost twenty years," Bullock told her, twin streams of smoke coming out his nostrils. "I've seen some shit. Some _fucked up_ shit, little girl. You have no fucking idea. I was here for the gang war and for No Man's Land too, but this is _by far_ one of the most fucked up nights we've ever had since. The scanner has been lighting up all night. In just a few hours, this Red Hood motherfucker has single-handedly killed almost most two _dozen_ people, left behind _five_ decapitated bodies—"

"This makes six," Montoya corrected.

Bullock backed away from Dora a few inches and rolled his eyes, incredulous. "God help me. Six fucking heads, and guess what? The night's just started. The first call about this guy came in just _two_ hours ago. Imagine what this psycho can do with a whole fucking night, kid. He's almost as bad as the Joker."

"Why are you telling me this?" Dora asked.

Bullock turned around and spat his cigarette onto the ground. He stomped on it and looked at Dora with contempt. "Because even though this Red Hood guy saved your life, I don't want you to forget that he's dangerous. He wasn't acting in self-defense. He didn't have to kill these guys to save your life. He's not a fucking hero. He's a cold-blooded _killer_ , kid."


	5. Paint the Town

**Chapter 5: Paint the Town**

Two days later, Dora went to One Police Plaza to make her official statement—Red Hood was that big of a deal, there was a task force dedicated to taking him down working out of the GCPD's central headquarters in Old Gotham. Dora arrived at the giant building only to find the entrance roped off by yellow tape. There was a crime scene right on the front steps. Cameras flashed and people chattered in the large crowd that had gathered as close as they could get. News reporters related the event in front of cameramen at the fringe of the scene. The crowd was so dense, Dora couldn't see what the fuss was about.

"Hey, you!" Bullock stomped up to her from a food truck he had been standing by, tossing aside his half-eaten gyro.

"What?" she asked.

Bullock snarled. "What do you mean ' _what_?' Your boyfriend dropped off a little present for the GCPD."

She had no idea what boyfriend Bullock was talking about because she had been single for well over two years. However, the familiar contemptuous look on his face soon made her realize he was talking about Red Hood—and she didn't like that.

"What's going on? Why the crowd?" she attempted.

"As if you don't know," Bullock spat impatiently.

Bullock was too bitter to tell her, but after he escorted her inside the GCPD building—roughly by the arm—Montoya took over and shooed Bullock away. He snorted and stomped away, muttering under his breath. Although Dora wasn't fond of either of them, she prefered Montoya more than Bullock, but she was still wary not to be fooled by their good cop/bad cop routine. At least Montoya believed she hadn't deliberately sicced Red Hood on the men harassing her-she hoped.

While recording her statement and filling out a stack of paperwork for some mousy intern from the DA's office, Dora learned from Montoya that Red Hood wasn't keeping every head he took for himself. Regarding the incident she had walked in on when she arrived at the GCPD, Montoya told her—over her morning coffee—that it appeared Red Hood had just dropped off the head of a corrupt businessman named Adam Hunt on the GCPD's doorstep in order to send a message. This Adam Hunt had allegedly—and Montoya emphasized the word _allegedly_ —laundered money for many of Gotham's crime organizations. He was on the GCPD's watch list for _years_ , but they could never gather enough evidence for a solid conviction, let alone enough to charge him with any legitimate crime. When the DA intern left, Montoya offered her theory that Hunt's lawyers were just too damn good, and revealed that she suspected the ADA and a few judges were in Black Mask's pocket.

"I guess Red Hood doesn't care about the burden of proof," Montoya told Dora while they filled out yet more paperwork in the bustling bullpen. Uniform cops, detectives, and jail guards were scrambling around the office, shouting at perps, and into their phones, radios, and each other. "This Red Hood guy considers himself judge, jury, and executioner. I'm not sure if he's deranged or just sick of waiting for justice to be done. If the latter's the case, I can't blame him cuz kinda get it. Pero no le dices a Bullock que yo te dije eso."

Dora didn't promise anything, but she and Montoya shared a lingering look that made Dora think Montoya was as frustrated with the corruption and ineffectiveness in law enforcement as she was.

After filling out all the paperwork, the detectives set Dora loose and didn't bother her again. She assumed they were too busy chasing after Red Hood, who was _literally_ painting the city of Gotham red and watching it burn.

Morning, noon, and night, everything Dora heard and read on the news was about either Red Hood, Batman, or Black Mask—or any combination of them. It was a veritable free-for-all, each one pitted relentlessly against the other two. However, it was plain to see that who everyone feared most was Red Hood. As the newcomer, he was the most unpredictable and therefore the most dangerous. There had been _dozens_ of arsons in his name. In some cases vehicles and whole buildings were _blown up_. Gotham's citizens were afraid to leave their homes for fear that any public place they visited or transportation they used might be rigged with one of Red Hood's bombs. The city was being terrorized and demolished, one building at a time, by an unhinged pyromaniac in a red helmet. Wherever Firefly was nowadays, Dora mused, he was being put to shame; and Batman was struggling to keep up.

What the media didn't know (and apparently the cops were keeping quiet) was the fact that most of the buildings that were bombed were fronts, hideouts, laundromats, drug labs, brothels, casinos, speakeasies, and stashes of Gotham's worst gangs. Not to mention the steady stream of severed heads that were dumped almost _daily_ on the steps of One Police Plaza were those of crime bosses and their highest-ranking lieutenants. Dora knew this because it was all the Alibi's customers would talk about. She even noticed that the shadiest and most delinquent of her clientele weren't coming around the bar as often.

It was plainly obvious that Gotham's criminals were scared shitless. They were scrambling, like rats trapped in a box, panicked into a frenzy, desperate for survival.

Despite the seemingly rampant destruction reported in the news, all the innocent Gotham citizens that lived in Park Row and the other impoverished neighborhoods were beginning to feel safer. Outside of Red Hood's own crimes, organized and petty criminal activity in Gotham had actually _decreased_ since his debut. In the week after the massacre in the alley, it seemed like Red Hood was gaining more notoriety, yet getting further away from being caught.

The streets were buzzing with support for Red Hood, and Dora noticed it everywhere—from bargoers in the Alibi to people waiting in lane at Starbucks and all over social media. The common topic of conversation now was whether you should support Batman or Red Hood, and the people that favored Red Hood had taken to wearing red hoodies and baseball caps. Still, some people insisted neither Red Hood or Batman were the answer, believing that the GCPD and the courts were the only legal way to fight crime and protect the innocent.

But to Dora, there could be no mistake. Her neighborhood of Park Row was now a safer place to live. Whenever she needed proof to reassure herself, all she had to do was open her bedroom window at night and take a moment to listen to the city. She no longer heard drug dealers and addicts yelling at each other in the alleys, the hookers and johns catcalling on the street corners, or gunshots and sirens echoing through the air—all things she used to hear on a nightly basis before Red Hood came along were now gone. No one had to take her word for it, everyone in Park Row noticed how quiet it had become.

And Rochelle thought so, too. After initially being scared—literally to death—of Red Hood, it seemed like Rochelle had become one of his biggest fans in the weeks since his first appearance in that alley. She wore red to work nearly everyday.

"Well, he comes on a little strong, yeah-but you can't deny the effect he's had on the town, Dee," Rochelle told Dora one night at the Alibi after last call. "Crooks are too scared to try anything. Maybe that's just what it takes in a shithole like Gotham. The city's so infested with monsters, we needed a bigger one on our side. Batman and his crew weren't enough. And don't know if it's just me, but it seems like he's sighted around here in Park Row more than anywhere else."

Dora found Rochelle's about-face somewhat confusing, remembering just how afraid Rochelle was when she first encountered Red Hood, the same night Dora had. When Dora asked her about that, she answered, "Well that was before I realized what he was doing, y'know? He's made life much better for Morgan and me." (Morgan was Rochelle's live-in boyfriend.) "I'm not sure what Red Hood did, but he came around our building once, then our landlord suddenly wasn't threatening us to call ICE on us anymore."

"Yeah, that's great, I guess," Dora replied. The jury was still out in her own mind. In the days since Sergei's murder, she had felt the relief that came from knowing she didn't owe Black Mask half her profits every month, but it was only because of a vigilante that was basically a terrorist and mass murderer, nevermind that he only targeted other criminals. She hadn't forgotten that she owed Red Hood protection money instead of Sergei and Black Mask now, however much less it was. She didn't want to think what Red Hood was capable of if she didn't pay up. What made it worse was that for some reason she still hadn't quite figured out, she had hidden that fact from both the police and everyone else, including Rochelle and her own family. Dora had no idea what kind of trouble she would be in if they found out. It was like she was in the middle of another gang war, and she had barely survived one already.

After relieving Rochelle for the night, Dora was in the process of locking up, when someone knocked on the Alibi's front plate-glass window. Dora saw Holly's face beaming at her through the smudged glass pane. She undid the locks and let her in.

"Damn, Dee. How many locks do you have on this door?"

"Six deadbolts," Dora replied, exasperated as she locked them all again, each with different keys. "Can never be too careful in this neighborhood... But hey... I haven't seen or heard from you all week." She noticed that Holly was favoring her right leg as she walked in. "Are you okay? What happened to your leg?"

"Oh? This? It's nothing. Half-healed already."

"Why haven't you been replying to my texts?"

"Texts?" Holly looked confused for a moment. She felt around her pockets for a phone but came up with nothing. An amused expression appeared on her face. She said, "Oh. You only had my work number. I threw that phone out."

"Why?"

"I didn't need it anymore. Gotta get myself a new phone, I guess..."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I'm no longer turning tricks!" Holly pulled Dora into a tight hug, giddy with laughter, a bubbly noise that Dora had never heard from her before. Holly seemed like a wholly different person.

"What? Are you serious?" Dora pulled Holly away, and looked her up and down properly. The younger girl wasn't dressed in her usual outfit—a form-fitting dress that left nothing to the imagination. Tonight Holly was wearing sneakers, jeans, and a t-shirt—and no make-up whatsoever. She looked like the sixteen-year-old girl that she actually was—poignantly reminding Dora of just how far Carla could fall if she didn't get her act together soon.

"Serious as a heart attack." Holly laughed again. "This Red Hood guy, Dee… He saved my life."

"Yeah, I was there, remember? He saved my life too. And Rochelle's."

"No, I mean aside from that first time. You know Stan, right? My pimp?"

 _Uh oh._ Dora felt her stomach drop. She could only nod, but the feeling of dread was already weighing down her stomach. _Red Hood killed him._

"Well, Red Hood came around and… just…" Holly rolled her eyes, but the smile never left her face. "He tore Stan a new asshole, let's just say—"

"Is Stan still alive?" Dora had to ask. _Does he still have his head?_

"Yeah, Dee, don't sweat it. He's still breathing." But Holly snorted and shook her head, smirking. "Barely."

"And you saw him? You saw Red Hood do it?"

"Yeah! After taking care of Stan and his goons, he rushed all the girls out, and rigged the brothel to blow." A blush bloomed on Holly's face as she massaged her ankle. "I tripped down the stoop and hurt my foot, so he picked me up, threw me over his shoulder and fucking _parkoured_ his way down the block until we were safe!"

Taking a second to imagine it, Dora found herself impressed. The next second, she actually felt a twinge of _jealousy_. Rochelle and Holly had both been helped by Red Hood, both once more than she had. But almost immediately she was ashamed of herself. _Get your head out of your ass. Think straight. That dude is dangerous._

Then something else occurred to her. She frowned. "Wait. Hol, what are you going to do now? With Stan gone, you're out of a job, aren't you?" If Holly were a little bit older, she would offer her a job at the Alibi, but it was already bad enough that she had let her drink there.

"Not quite." Holly grabbed a bottle from the bar shelf and some tumblers from the counter. "Red Hood took over. With Stan gone, he set the girls up in a new place, with a new front, and a new madam. We have a _madam_ , now, Dee! Not a slimy old pimp! How classy is that? Her name's Ma Gunn. I've never heard of her before, but she's legit as fuck. Turned tricks herself back in the day, was in the high-end escort biz for years. She's posh as fuck, and doesn't traffick and doesn't force anybody on dates they don't want to go on."

"If you're not going on dates, what kind of work do you do for her?"

"I'm too young for dates she says, so I take care of matchmaking and scheduling mostly." Holly put a cup of vodka in Dora's hand, her smile beaming brighter. "Ma's still having girls work the corner and the bars and the brothel but she's trying to set up an escort service for the whales and high rollers. I set up dates, book drivers, restaurants, hotels... I guess I'm basically a sex concierge now."

Holly clinked glasses with Dora and downed her shot in just one gulp. However, Dora didn't do the same. She never had a taste for vodka thanks to Sergei and his men. "Congrat—" Dora was interrupted by a loud bang muffled by the walls.

Holly wheeled around. "What was that?"

"I think it was the backdoor. It sometimes swings open when it's windy."

Holly frowned. "I was just outside. It's not windy tonight, Dee."

Dora recognized the sound of the back door slamming closed. Someone had come into the kitchen. "Maybe it's Rochelle," Dora wondered aloud. "Or my mom." Those two were the only other people than Dora that had keys to the Alibi. "I'll check it out." Dora made sure her pepper spray was hanging from her belt loop, then grabbed the aluminum baseball bat from under the bar. She had almost reached the kitchen door when it swung open. A short person burst out of it.

It took Dora a moment to recognize the figure because it was wearing an orange hoodie with a backpack strapped tightly to her back. "Carla?" Dora gasped.

Her little sister slid to a halt, pulling off her hood, her shoes squeaking on the floor.

" _Carla_? Your sister?" Holly asked, head bobbing between her and Dora. "Aw, she's so cute, Dee. She looks just like you. But, oh… Hey, what's wrong?"

Carla was frantic, sweating bullets, out of breath, with a bone-chilling look of dread on her face.

"What are you doing here?" Dora asked. "What's wrong?"

Her little sister didn't answer any of their questions. Instead she vaulted over the bar and started pulling open all the drawers and cabinets.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Dora yelled. "You're not allowed back there! Stop!"

"Where's Dad's gun?" Carla shouted desperately. She fumbled underneath the counter. "Where is it?"

"What the heck do you need Dad's gun for?"

"I…" Carla looked up at Dora, finally holding still for moment, but the quivering tears in her eyes made it clear she was panicking.

She looked her age now, or less, Dora thought; every part of her was shaking. "Carla, talk to me," she asked as gently as she could. She handed Holly the baseball bat and held Carla's face, wiping the sweat from her forehead and the tears from her cheeks. The girl trembled in her hands. "Talk to me, it's okay."

Carla didn't look at Dora, but at Holly instead, blinking her wet eyes in confusion.

"That's Holly. She's my friend. She's cool," Dora explained.

Carla whimpered and shrugged off her backpack. "I'm sorry, Dee…" She unzipped it. Dora looked inside and her jaw dropped.

Holly peeked over her shoulder and gasped, "Holy shit."

The backpack was stuffed full of bricks of white powder, tightly wrapped in plastic.

"That's a lot of fucking coke!" Holly exclaimed. "What the fuck, Carla? How'd you get your hands on all that?"

"I was running product for my crew, but then some guys from another crew tried to steal it… I ran… but I don't know if I lost them. I'm so sorry, Dora!"

"You're part of a _gang_?" Dora didn't know whether to feel angry, sad, or disappointed. What was certain, though, was how worried she was about her little sister. "Carla…"

But a loud banging penetrated the walls again. Carla yelped and jumped out Dora's grasp. "No! They found me! Fuck, Dora, we have to get out of here!" She grabbed a handful of Dora's t-shirt and pulled her toward the front door. "They got guns! We have to run!"

 _Ptnng! Ptnng!_ _Womp!_ The sounds made it clear that the men after Carla had shot the lock or hinges off the back door. The sound of several heavy footsteps came from the kitchen.

Dora looked at the six deadbolts locking up the front door all the way across the bar. She cursed. At the rate it usually took her to fumble through them, they would never escape in time. They were trapped.


	6. Outlaw

**Chapter 6: Outlaw**

Loud banging penetrated the walls again. Carla yelped. "No! They found me! Fuck, Dora, we have to get out of here!" She grabbed Dora's t-shirt and pulled her toward the front door. "They got guns! We have to run!"

 _Ptnng! Ptnng!_ _Womp!_ The sounds made it clear that the men after Carla had shot the lock off the back door. They were inside the kitchen. Dora looked at the four deadbolts locking up the front door of the bar and cursed. At the rate it usually took her to fumble with them, they would never escape in time. They were trapped.

Holly had realized the same thing and hissed in a loud whisper, "No time to run! Just hide! Now!" She pulled both Dora and Carla to the floor down behind the bar and they both hit the floor hard.

The kitchen door swung open. Dora heard footsteps and voices. She guessed at least three men entered the bar, but she didn't dare peek over the counter to be sure.

"Where the fuck is the little bitch?" said a man's voice.

"Don't just stand there, motherfucker, _look_ for her!" said another man. "She's gotta be in here. Check the bathrooms and under all the booths and shit. Don't just stand there looking at me like a retard! Ahora, cabron! Andale!"

Dora put her finger to her lips, looking at Carla and Holly with wide eyes, urging them not to make a sound. Carla squirmed, tears running down her cheeks. A sob gurgled in her throat, but Holly clamped her hand over her mouth. Her other hand gripped the baseball bat tightly. Dora mimed holding a phone to her ear, but Holly shook her head. Understanding, Dora bit her lip, cursing their luck. They couldn't call the cops. Holly had thrown away her work phone, Carla's phone was with their mom because she was grounded, and her own phone was charging in the office along with the landline, which might as well have been a million miles away right now.

They only had only a few seconds before they were found. After the bathroom and office, behind the bar was the next place the thugs would look. Dora belly-crawled to the end of the bar. She reached up and jabbed the screen of the cash register. The drawer popped open with a sharp clatter. She cringed, forgetting that it always made that sound when it opened, but it was already too late.

"Oye, behind the bar!"

Without standing up, Dora reached under the cash tray and fumbled around the back of the drawer.

Carla shrieked then. A thug had come behind the bar and spotted them, leering. Holly tried to swing her bat at his legs, but Carla had latched onto her in fright, limiting her reach. "Dora!" Holly cried for help desperately.

"Hey, she's here! She's got friends!"

Dora finally grasped the handgun under the tray and pulled it out of the drawer. She cocked it and took aim. "Get out!" she shouted. Her wrist tightened and her hand squeezed the grip safety.

But the thug was armed too. When he lifted his gun, Dora reacted.

She pulled the trigger twice. _Pow! Pow!_

Immediately, she heard wood splinter behind the thug, but he yelped in pain and grabbed his arm. While missing one shot, she had landed a hit with the other. She was glad she had forgone her glasses today and chosen to wear contacts instead, or else she would have missed both.

"The cunt has a gun!" the wounded thug yelled as he crawled away, returning a few haphazard shots with his lame arm. The girls all hit the floor, and all his shots missed.

"Puta!" spat the head thug. Dora recognized him by his distinctive Santa Priscan accent. "Light them up!"

 _It's assholes like these guys that give us Priscans a bad rep._ But Dora had no time to dwell on that because a barrage of gunfire showered the bar. Liquor bottles on the shelf exploded, raining glass and alcohol on the three girls. The cacophony was deafening. Holly and Carla both screamed, and Dora felt like screaming too, but she held it in.

A cold chill squeezed her heart as panic set in. She had six rounds left in her Colt 1911 now, and only eight more in an extra magazine shoved in her pocket. Her father had taught her how to shoot, but she wasn't good enough to hit three or more _moving_ targets that shot back—and he had never taught her how to take cover and return fire. She prayed the tenants upstairs had heard the gunshots and had called the cops already.

"Just give them back their dope, Carla!" Holly shouted over the gunfire.

Carla fumbled with the backpack, shaking with terror, and shoved it onto the counter. "You can have it!" she shouted, but frightened as she was, it came out as a hoarse croak. "Take it! L-leave us alone! Please! _Please!_ "

The gunfire stopped for a moment. "Grab the bag, dude!"

"No way, man, she'll shoot us if we get too close!"

"Don't be a pussy! Do you think that little bitch can shoot better than us? Go get the crack or I'll fucking shoot you myself!"

Dora heard a thump—she guessed it was one thug hitting the other to prod him forward. Footsteps sounded as he approached.

Her heart had been pounding in her chest, but it suddenly jumped into her throat. She could feel it pulsing in her temples, hear it beating in her ears, in rhythm with the thug's footsteps. Then it stopped, replaced by an ascending screech.

 _Pow! Splat!_

Dora realized that the screeching sound was herself screaming, muffled by her deafening heartbeat and an overdose of adrenaline surging through her veins.

As the thug had come up to the bar to retrieve the bag, she had popped up out of cover and shot him.

In the face.

Gunfire erupted again. She had ducked back down just in time.

"Dora!" Holly cried. "What the fuck?"

Dora's nostrils flared as she sucked in breath, after breath, after heavy breath. The gun smoke burned her lungs. She didn't dare breathe through her mouth. She would vomit otherwise. Her resolve would break.

" _Dora!_ " Holly yelled again.

Staring straight ahead, she tried to stop the room from spinning, but it was no use. _I just killed a man. I took a human life. I'm a killer. A murderer._ The red mist sprouting behind the man's head was an image she would never forget. Being so focused on him, she hadn't bothered to count how many thugs were in the bar.

"What the fuck! If they weren't going to kill us before, they're for sure going to do it now!" Holly shouted.

Dora finally spoke, cold reason tumbling to place. "Think, Holly! They're going to kill us anyway even if we gave up the drugs."

"Hey, stop!" the lead thug said. " _I said stop!_ You're wasting ammo, dumbasses. Tontos, pare! Dios mio!" His men obeyed, but even after the guns stopped firing, Dora could still hear them echoing in her head. "Now listen, puta, let's make a deal. We won't kill you."

"Shit, they heard us," Holly cursed, whispering now.

The thug continued. "If you give yourself up, we won't hurt your friends. But as for you—"

"Esa perra mató mi hermano y jodio mi brazo!" one of his men said.

"What the fuck did he say?" Holly asked Dora.

"Doesn't matter," she whispered. It really didn't, though she understood. The man she had just killed was the brother of the man she had shot in the arm. And he wasn't in a mood to negotiate.

"Chill, homie!" snapped his boss. "Look," he said to Dora again, "don't be selfish. You stole our dope and killed our hermano, so we can't let you go, but your friends can still walk free."

"Voy a joder esa puta, y luego voy a matar. Muy despacio, escuchame," grunted the wounded thug.

 _Yuck,_ Dora thought, _is every thug in Gotham a fucking rapist?_ She heard Holly whimper and Carla sob. Carla had curled herself up into a fetal ball, making herself as small as possible—completely oblivious, almost catatonic. She sobbed, mumbling something in Spanish Dora couldn't hear distinguish. A prayer, she realized. Carla didn't speak Spanish as well as Dora, so the only time she did was to recite Catholic or Santeriaprayers from memory that their abuela had taught them while growing up.

Then it clicked in Dora's mind. Even if she gave herself up, these men would never let Holly and Carla go. They would have seen the thugs' faces, and the thugs wouldn't trust them not report to the police.

 _If I give up, we all die. If I fight… we might all_ still _die, but…_

Dora sank back down and gripped her father's pistol tighter. It was a Colt 1911 he had used while he served in the Marines, in the Gulf War. His initials were etched into the wooden handle. Even against bleak odds, Dora knew her father would still want her to fight until the bitter end—especially if it was for family.

"Come on, girl! We ain't got all night. This deal isn't going to last forever!" For emphasis, the thug fired a warning shot. It hit the wall of the bar, causing the shelving to break and several liquor bottles to fall and shatter. Holly shrieked. One bottle tumbled off the counter and hit Dora on the shoulder, narrowly missing her head, but it did not break. She caught the bottle. _Valdushka. Vodka._ Rubbing the sore spot, she got an idea. "Holly, give me a lighter."

"I don't have one," Holly sniffled.

"Carla?"

But Carla didn't respond. She was fully catatonic now, not even praying anymore. Fear had completely shut her down. Dora remembered her father telling her about this. Carla was shell-shocked. She wasn't a soldier on the battlefield, but she was a teenage girl staring death in the face for the first time, so why couldn't it happen to her?

"Check Carla's pockets," Dora commanded.

Holly frisked her, but Carla didn't seem to notice. Dora popped the bottle open. She didn't have to look at the label because its smell told her it was 50-proof. Perfect. She looked around for a dry bar rag, but there none to be found.

 _Dammit._ She ran a hand through her alcohol-drenched hair in frustration. Making a Molotov was a stupid idea anyway. She was covered in alcohol, so lighting one could easily set her on fire too.

But a thought struck her. _I'm drenched in alcohol._ And she had nothing to lose. She grabbed a shard of broken glass from the floor, the hem of her shirt, and tore off a piece to make a rag.

"Here." Holly tossed Dora a lighter.

Looking at the lighter, Dora felt a sharp pang in her chest. It was her father's Zippo; Carla must have nicked it from his footlocker. Maybe they had a chance. Their father seemed to be looking out for them from beyond the grave tonight.

"You're not doing what I think you're doing?" Holly asked, looking at the items in Dora's hands.

"I am. If you see an opening, take it and get Carla out of here."

"Okay, that's it. Enough waiting. I'm going in, man. Cover me. Now!" a thug shouted and his friends opened fire again.

Dora stuffed the piece of her shirt into the bottle of vodka and flicked the lighter on, holding the materials as far away from herself as she could. The rag caught flame immediately—but so did her hand.

Gritting her teeth to bite back the searing pain, she endured long enough to toss the bottle over the counter. She grabbed the nearest water-soaked rag and doused the flames on her hand before it could spread up her arm and engulf her.

She heard the bottle shatter and a _woosh_ as the alcohol ignited. The thugs shouted curses in surprise. That was her cue. Dora grabbed her father's gun and ran out from behind the bar. "Go!" she yelled at Holly.

As she ran, she counted five men. One was dead, one was wounded and hanging back, and three were up and able, but distracted by the table and chairs that had caught on fire in front of them.

Dora took aim and fired. After two shots, the fire died down to a blue smolder, and the thugs pointed their guns at her. Behind them, she saw Holly drag Carla into the kitchen unnoticed. She cringed internally—she could have escaped with them. The additional distraction was in vain, but she couldn't dwell on her mistake because she was being shot at again.

Returning fire, she aimed as best as she could while running to the other side of the room. By the time she slid into cover behind a booth, the pistol's trigger had gone stiff. There were no more cartridges in the magazine.

Out of the five shots she had fired in her mad distraction, Dora counted only one hit, and it was center-mass. She didn't dare peek over her cover to check if the man she had hit had actually gone down. The booth she was behind gave her less cover than the bar had and no route for escape. It was four against one now. The thugs would kill her before the cops arrived, if in fact any of her neighbors had called them. They didn't do anything the last time guns were heard by the bar, the night Red Hood saved her life—Dora had to call them in herself. Gunfire was common place in Park Row and the police were useless; even Detective Montoya had admitted as much.

Dora lamented, but only for a moment, remembering that Carla was safe now, and Holly, too. If she died now, at least it was worth it. She took a deep breath, then reloaded and cocked the pistol. It was her last magazine.

"You're really dead now, puta!"

"Yo sé!" she shouted back. She kissed the handle of the pistol, where her father had carved in his initials. _See you soon, Papi._

But the thugs didn't open fire. "Oye, escucha," one of them said to another. "Es la policia?"

Dora heard something strange too. A humming coming from outside the bar. As it grew louder, she would have guessed it was some type of muscle car, but it had to be the police. However, she heard no sirens and the humming turned into a roar. Light bathed the bar through the plate glass window in the front, but it was white, not red and blue. Headlamps, Dora realized. And the light was getting brighter.

" _LOOK OUT!"_ someone cried.

The roar died a split second before the Alibi's plate glass window exploded. Shards flew everywhere in the wake of a _motorcycle_ flying into the bar.

The thugs jumped out of the way, but the one with the bullet in his gut wasn't quick enough. The motorcycle barreled into him, sweeping him off his feet. The bike pinned him to the pool table behind him with a spectacular gush of blood. Dora couldn't mistake him as alive.

"Shoot him!" one of the others shouted.

Dora turned to the broken window and couldn't believe her eyes.

Red Hood vaulted through the opening, so swiftly she almost missed it. No sooner had his boots hit the floor, than he juked and rolled, avoiding the thugs' gunfire. In just a few seconds, he had crossed the room and wrapped his hands around one thug's neck.

Feet dangling inches off the floor, the thug gurgled, not even able to gasp for breath because of Red Hood's tight grip on his neck. The other two thugs shot at Red Hood, but he used the captive thug as a body shield. Bullet holes peppered the thug's back, and when his friends stopped to reload, Red Hood snapped his neck and tossed his body at them. The two were barreled down, their guns falling out their hands.

"Enough foreplay." Red Hood sounded playful. "Now it's time for some _real_ fun."

Frozen in shock, Dora watched him pounce on the two remaining thugs and give them a sickeningly brutal beat down. She couldn't look away as their ribs were caved in and their faces were rearranged. As Red Hood focused mercilessly on one thug, the other tried to crawl away… but before he had gotten anywhere, Red Hood dragged him back and curb-stomped his face on the seat of a chair, killing him instantly.

The last thug laid broken and wheezing as Red Hood rolled his shoulders and massaged his bloody fists. Dora heard his joints and knuckles pop as he released a satisfied groan. He turned to look at her. "Dora."

"Y-yeah?" she stammered, shocked that he remembered her name.

"Give me your gun." He held out a large gloved hand.

She looked down at the pistol. Seeing the holsters on his waist and thighs, he obviously had his own, but she knew what he was going to do with it. She also knew she should tell him no, but she still found herself handing it over.

Red Hood gave the pistol an inspection. He de-cocked it and released the magazine, checking to see how many rounds were left. Seeming satisfied, he reloaded and chambered a round. He looked down at the one thug still alive.

"Pweath thon'th," the thug begged with a broken jaw and shattered teeth. He held up a trembling hand.

But Red Hood didn't care, of course. He brushed his hand aside and shot the thug in the face.

Dora released a shuddering breath. She felt like she had been holding it for hours. Relief washed over her. It was over. She was safe now, and so were Holly and Carla… although only physically in Carla's case. _What she went through tonight_ , Dora lamented. _She almost died. And saw me kill a man._

Dora remembered how broken she was after she saw Black Mask kill her father. But she was already an adult, and Carla was still just fourteen years old. How would this experience affect her?

"What happened?"

Her attention returned to the present. Red Hood had just spoken to her. She looked at him, staring into the glowing white slits of his faceless mask. She could almost _sense_ the stern expression on his face behind it. "Come on," he said, "I don't have a lot of time."

She crawled out from behind the booth and took a seat. Her hands shook so badly she had to knit her fingers together to keep them still. She cleared her throat and explained. Hesitant at first, reluctant to relive the traumatic experience that had only _just_ happened, eventually the story spewed out in distinct detail. As she recounted, Red Hood walked around the bar, looking this way and that, over and under, crouching here and there, aiming down the sights of her father's pistol. At certain points, he seemed to actually be reenacting what had happened.

When Dora finished, he said, "I'm impressed."

She looked at him blankly. "What?"

"You killed a man, and wounded two more." He chuckled. "You're pretty scrappy for what? Five-foot-nothing and a buck-ten?"

 _Buck-_ _thirty_ _._ "My father taught me how to shoot." _But not well enough. Eight shots and only three hit their mark._ "That's his gun you're holding."

Red Hood studied the pistol in his hand again. "Yeah, it's a good weapon. I carry some M45A1s myself."

"What?" She didn't know gun models half so well as her father had. He had only taught her how to shoot them.

"Never mind. I'm going to borrow this for a while." He holstered her father's gun somewhere inside his motorcycle jacket.

"But…" Dora stood. She wasn't sure if she really wanted to refuse him, just after he had just saved her life. "Why?"

"So I can take the credit for killing these guys. Like last time."

She frowned. "You mean the _blame_?"

Red Hood's sculpted shoulders shook as he laughed. "No, I mean _credit_. These guys' hermanos are gonna want revenge, and you don't want that shit-storm coming down on your head. As tough as you are—and believe me, you're one of the toughest women I've ever met—I'm just better equipped to handle it."

Dora wasn't sure if he had meant to compliment her with that explanation or not, but she shrugged it off. "But why do you need my father's gun for that?"

"Well, that's part of the shit-storm. I don't want the GCPD pinning a manslaughter charge on you, just in case. I'm sure you don't either."

"Manslaughter? This was all self-defense!" She pointed at the man with the bloody hole in his face, the man she had killed. "They were trying to _kill_ me. And my sister! _And_ my friend!"

"Half the GCPD is still in Black Mask's pocket, along with the district attorney. These guys weren't part of my crew, so guess who they answered to."

Dora was at a loss for words. Detective Montoya had been right about the corruption in the GCPD and the DA's office. After all she had gone through tonight trying to stay alive, the courts would side with the assholes that tried to _kill_ her and the people she cared about.

"You get it now, don't you? Why I do this?" Red Hood's glowing white pupil-less eyes seemed to penetrate her mind.

She wanted to say yes, but she still wasn't entirely convinced Red Hood's approach was the best. Sure, Gotham's criminal justice system was both corrupt and incompetent, but there were already people out there making up for it—people like Montoya, like the Bat Family.

Dora looked at the bodies sprawled all around her bar. Five dead men. She had only killed one, but bullets from her father's gun were inside four of them. The Bats weren't lawyers. They weren't cops. They couldn't save her from a manslaughter conviction and ten years in prison.

"Fine." She frowned. "Just please don't cut off their heads."

Red Hood chuckled. "Don't worry, I won't."

She looked around her bar again—over the crime scene. "What should I tell the cops? If you want credit, we need to get our story straight."

"I was getting to that." Red Hood walked over to Carla's backpack full of coke, miraculously untouched by the hail of bullets that had struck the bar only minutes ago. He zipped it up and slung it over his shoulder. "Just tell the cops you were being robbed by these guys, and I came in and saved your ass. It's pretty much the truth."

"I... I, um..." _I killed one of them,_ she wanted to say. _I didn't need you to save me this time._ But she knew it wasn't true. She would have been dead without him. But at the very least she was responsible for Carla and Holly still being alive. Red Hood couldn't take credit for that. Even if she had to keep it secret from the whole world for the rest of her life, Carla and Holly would still know she didn't need a _man's_ help to defend her loved ones.

"You'll need an alibi," Red Hood said. "Hit me with your pepper spray."

Dora almost asked what he meant, but he anticipated that and pointed at her waist. Instinctively, her hand went to her belt loop. Without looking, her fingers touched the carabiner clipped there, which held her keys and her small can of pepper spray. She cringed. It had been there the whole time, and she had opted to use a gun instead.

"Come on, do it," Red Hood prodded.

With shaky hands, Dora unclipped the carabiner and aimed the small can at Red Hood's faceless mask. "Are you sure?"

He chuckled, knocking on his helmet. "I don't wear this red bucket _just_ for show. It has its uses. Go ahead." He curled his fingers toward himself, almost taunting her.

Dora squeezed the nozzle, but Red Hood stepped aside. The squirt went over his shoulder. He snickered. He _was_ taunting her. "We have to make it look good for the CSIs. Come on, hit me now."

She squirted him again, aiming at the eye slits of his mask. This time he stood as still as a statue. This close, Dora could feel her own eyes water and nostrils flare from the caustic chemical, but Red Hood didn't so much as flinch. He actually wiped the liquid off his mask and flicked the moisture away, as if Dora had done no more than squirted him in the face with a cheap water gun. It sprinkled on the floor.

"There. Now CSI will back you up."

 _Woopwoopwoop!_ Sirens. Finally. The police were close.

Red Hood turned his head/helmet toward the shattered front window. "That's my cue." Dora could make out faint flickers of red and blue light reflecting off the disparate surfaces of the bar. "Take care, Dora." He lingered to look at her—a moment too long, she felt. It was awkward, but thankfully, he was already escaping through the kitchen before the blush had fully bloomed on her face.

Her heart was racing, almost as much as it had when bullets were flying only minutes earlier. Instead of the acute repulsion she should have felt sharing the same air as a cold-blooded killer, she felt... something else. _Gratitude_ , she thought. _No, something else._ Whatever it was, it made her uncomfortable.


	7. Into the Gray

**Chapter 7: Into the Gray**

The jail cell was cramped—five feet by eight, probably less; Dora couldn't be sure. The concrete walls were a dull gray, and so were the floor and the ceiling and the steel door sealing her in. The fluorescent lights hummed above her, obnoxiously bright, but one bulb insisted on flickering and snapping incessantly. It was driving her mad and giving her the _worst_ headache of her life. She would have tried to rip it out of it's socket if it wasn't behind a metal grill.

 _So much for taking all the credit,_ Dora thought to herself. She massaged her temples as a bone-chilling shiver rippled throughout her body. She had never been more uncomfortable in her whole life.

She was cold, hungry, thirsty, and in pain. Her hair and clothes had dried, but she still reeked of alcohol from the thugs shooting up the liquor shelf behind the bar. The shredded hem of her stained tank top exposed her stomach and arms to the circulating 70-degree chill in the room. Her lower back ached because of the unyielding aluminum bench she was laying on. Dora knew these jail cells were purposefully constructed to ensure maximum discomfort.

Although the EMTs had cleaned and treated the burn on her hand, the pain seared every now and then as if it was still on fire. She wanted to regret making that Molotov cocktail, but she couldn't. Without it, Carla and Holly wouldn't have been able to escape the bar.

It had been eight hours, although she could only guess. The only way to keep track of time was the combination steel toilet/sink that automatically flushed itself about every thirty minutes. She knew because she had counted the minutes. But since then she had lost count of the flushes. She was tired and wanted to sleep, but just _couldn't._ It wasn't just the lights, or the hard bench, or the toilet flushing, or the pain in her hand—it was Carla.

 _Is she alright?_

Carla had escaped the bar, but Dora didn't know if she had gotten home safe. She and Holly could have run into another group of thugs on the way—that wasn't out of the question in Park Row in the middle of the night. And if she had made it home... It broke Dora's heart thinking about how shell-shocked Carla had been—nearly catatonic. _She almost died. And she saw me kill a man. How long will it take for her to get over that? Hopefully she hasn_ _'t talked to the police._

Bullock wouldn't give her a phone call, so the worry was killing her—along with the anxiety of how her mother was bound to react. She couldn't be bailed out even if she had the money. Montoya had tried to emphasize that she wasn't under arrest. She was being _detained_ as a witness. Apparently in the GCPD's messed-up way of operating, that didn't entitle her to the same basic privileges as a criminal.

A clatter came from the other side of the door. Dora sat up and popped the kinks out of her back as the door slid open with a sharp buzz. Bullock walked into the cell in a cloud of cigarette smoke. "Had enough?"

Dora wasn't sure if she was happy to see him or not. "You interrupted my nap," she said through a real yawn.

Bullock grabbed her by the arm and pulled her out of the cell. He led her out of the cell block, his grip never loosening. He was hurting her, aggravating the burn on her hand, but Dora didn't complain because he might cuff her instead.

He shoved her into an interrogation room and pushed her so hard into a chair that it nearly toppled over. Dora looked up at the camera in the corner, wondering if it was recording. Montoya entered the room as Bullock sat down at the table.

"Let's try this again." Bullock put out his cigarette and tossed it aside.

Dora glared at him. "Okay." Nothing had changed since before he had "detained"her— _hours_ ago.

Montoya picked Bullock's cigarette butt off the floor and put it in the wastebasket. "You don't have to talk to us without an attorney present."

"Shut up, Montoya," Bullock snapped.

She shrugged. "We have to say it."

"No, we don't."

"It's okay," Dora said, "I don't need one. I didn't do anything wrong."

Bullock wasted no time. "Who is he?"

"I already told you. Red Hood."

Bullock growled. "What's his real name?"

"I don't know." _You think locking me up for however many hours would make me remember something I've never known?_

"Look, kid, it isn't a coincidence that the Red Mook saved your ass _twice_ in two weeks. We _know_ you and he are tight. Just give us his fucking name already."

"I don't know who he is. Haven't you heard? The whole neighborhood around Park Row is his turf now. Isn't the police's job to watch our backs, not vigilantes?"

Bullock grit his teeth. He didn't like that slight, but chose to ignore it. "Thirty square blocks of territory, but he still managed to know when you were in trouble."

"My bar is right on Park Row. You're a cop, you of all people should know how bad it gets on that street. They call it Crime Alley for a reason, dude. He's a _vigilante_ , so yeah, chances are he was watching closely, especially in the middle of the night. Plus, those assholes shot up my bar for, I dunno, ten whole whole minutes before he even showed up—maybe a half hour before you guys finally decided to." She wanted to go on, but bit her tongue. _It's no wonder we have half a dozen vigilantes running around the city. You guys suck at your jobs._

"Why'd they shoot up your bar for? What'd you do to piss them off?"

 _My little sister had some coke they wanted._ "I already told you," Dora said, rolling her eyes. "They just broke in and started shooting up the place. Maybe they wanted to rob me. They were probably False Facers, looking for payback from before."

"Those asshats your boyfriend killed were members of the Escabedo Cartel, not the False Face Society."

 _Not my boyfriend, dickhead,_ she thought, but let it slide. "What's it matter who they work for?"

Bullock chuckled bitterly. "Yeah, you're right, it doesn't matter. Gangsters, pimps, politicians, CEOs... Your boyfriend kills whoever he wants. _Everyone_ wants payback."

"Stop calling him that!" Dora finally snapped. "He's not my boyfriend!"

"You know what? I think he is!" Bullock stood up and slammed his fists on the table. "You're fucking the guy, aren't you? Why else is he always saving your ass?"

"Always?" Dora was exasperated. Bullock jumping to conclusions was infuriating. "He helped me out twice! Just _two_ fucking times!" She held up two fingers, and wanted nothing more than to jab Bullock's eyes to make him understand. Red Hood had saved Holly and Rochelle _both_ twice as well, but she couldn't mention that without implicating them.

"I'm not stupid! And neither were those men that shot up your bar! They knew you are the Red Mook's old lady, _that's_ why they rained hell down on your head—to draw him out! Admit it! You're fucking him! Tell me his name!"

" _I have no idea who he is!_ " she shouted. "I've never even seen his face!" For half a second she couldn't help but wonder what was behind his mask—and that reminded her. "The dude took one step at me, so I pepper sprayed him! I don't like him any more than you do, so fuck off, man!"

Bullock pulled out a pair of handcuffs from his belt. "Come here, you lying little spic, you're—"

"Bullock, enough!" Montoya grabbed her partner's shoulders and pulled him away. Dora was surprised. She was stronger than she looked.

"Get off of me!" Bullock shrugged her off.

"Back off the girl, Harvey, or I'll tell our captain you're harassing a witness." Montoya's deep brown eyes seemed to smolder. Dora had seen the same look in her mother's eyes, and her sisters'. Maybe it was a Latina thing.

"She's not a witness, she's a fucking accomplice!"

"We don't know that yet."

"It's right in front of your face, Montoya! Open your fucking eyes! We should book her now for obstructing the investigation!"

"Not without due diligence. Get out. Now."

Bullock groaned and threw his hands up. "Fine. I'm done. I'm fucking done. I don't know why I bother. Get out of my way, I'm going home. I'm getting too old for this shit." He shoved Montoya aside and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Montoya pinched her nose, releasing a tense sigh.

"How'd you get stuck with an asshole like that for a partner?" Dora asked. She was happier than ever for withholding the truth. Red Hood was probably right. If she had told Bullock that she had killed one of the thugs—even in self-defense—he would have jumped to charge her with manslaughter, or worse.

Montoya straightened her blazer and took the seat across from Dora. "I agree with you. He's an asshole. But he's a good detective in spite of that."

Dora scoffed, incredulous. "You don't actually believe that—"

"Look, mija—"

"I'm not your fucking daughter." She hated Montoya calling her that as much as she hated Bullock calling Red Hood her boyfriend.

"Sorry. Dora, look. If you don't speak up now, it could bite you in the ass later."

"I already told you what happened. I already told you I don't know his name, or what he looks like under that mask."

"Okay, this guy's real cool. I get it. He's tall, he's fit, he's got a mask and can go toe-to-toe with Batman, Nightwing, even Mr. Freeze." Montoya reached across the table and held her hand. Dora let her, but narrowed her eyes. "And he's looking out for you more than anyone else. He's got your back when no one else does. Dora, I know it seems like he cares about you..."

Dora pulled back her hand. "He doesn't. I'm not..."

"... but don't confuse his attention or your own gratitude for love—no es amor verdad..."

She couldn't take it. Pushing off the table, she stood and ran her hands anxiously through her hair.

Montoya was wrong. Dora had no idea who Red Hood was, what he looked like, even his age. And of course, he didn't like her _that_ way. If anything, Dora was sure she annoyed Red Hood, having to be saved all the time. He probably had things he would rather be doing than saving her butt and cleaning up her messes.

But then she remembered just how much it looked like he _enjoyed_ beating the crap out of those thugs.

Dora took a deep breath and glared at Montoya. "For the last time. I don't know his name. I don't know what he looks like. And I am _not_ sleeping with him. Okay?"

Montoya steepled her fingers and studied Dora closely. "No me gusta mentiras. If you're lying to us, Dora, when we catch him, you'll be charged as an accessory to _every_ crime he's committed wearing that mask. He's _killed_ people, Dora, so you'll be complicit. Do you understand what that means? You'll be in prison for the rest of your life too. Would you really risk your freedom, _ruin_ your life, for a guy? Por este hombre?"

Dora only glared at her. She didn't want to say it again.

Montoya sighed. "Okay, mira. While you were in detention, I talked to the DA and he's offered a deal. If you come forth now, we'll give you queen for a day. You'll be immune to everything he's done so far."

For a moment, Dora thought it was insulting that Montoya believed that she would let her emotions, her feelings for a man, cloud her judgment—her morality.

But with a pang, she realized that Montoya was half right. It had happened last night when she reached for a gun rather than her pepper spray. It was happening right now, she was lying to the police, denying that she had killed a man, and letting Red Hood take the blame instead.

But it didn't matter. She didn't have the information Montoya wanted. "Pass," Dora finally said.

Montoya hung her head for a moment, disappointed, then nodded. "Fine." She stood up and opened the door. "Then you're free to go."

Dora was halfway out when Montoya whispered, "Esta es tu última oportunidad. Espero que valga la pena." She had said, _"This is your last chance. I hope he's worth it."_

And at that moment, Dora wished she did know Red Hood's identity, because he probably _was_ worth it.

* * *

 **悪**

The door opened with a loud buzz and clank. The police officer ushered her through. "Keep your nose out of trouble, kid."

 _I try, but trouble always seems to find me._

She walked out into the crowded lobby of the 99th Precinct, and was suddenly aware of how exposing her tank top was—sheer and torn, her midriff bare for everyone to see. Bullock and Montoya hadn't given her a chance to grab her jacket when they "detained" her, let alone her phone or bag. After hearing her story at the Alibi, Bullock had spat _"Bullshit!"_ in her face and shoved her into a cruiser. Montoya had to convince him to wait for the EMTs to treat the burn on her hand before they drove her down to the station. Looking out the plate-glass doors across the lobby, Dora dreaded the nine-block walk home—then the hairs on the back of her neck rose. She could sense her coming.

 _Fuck._

"Dora Adela Marianela Aurelia Manuela Silva Alvarez!" her mother shouted her full name for all of Gotham to hear. The slim little woman shuffled up to her, unleashing an almost incoherent babble of Spanish. "Dios mío, dige me todo! Voy a pegarte si no le me digas la verdad... Que pasó en mi bar? Ay, pero mira... O, mi niñita... Lo siento, perdoname. Ven aquí. Dame sus brazos. Está okay?"

Dora cringed as her mother Anita pulled her into a tight hug. But unlike many times before, the cold awkward embrace became warm and welcome. Dora found herself gripping her mother tightly and burrowing into the crook of her neck. "I'm sorry, Mami. Era una noche insana... voy a dijir todo, no te preocupas."

 _It was a crazy night. I'm going to tell you everything, don't worry._ But Dora knew she couldn't share everything. She would have to give her mother the same bullshit story she had given Bullock and Montoya.

Anita frowned and made a concerned noise, fretting over the look of her. "Here, take my jacket. You can tell me everything later. I need to file a report about the bar," her mother said. "For insurance y todo. Cuida sus hermanas." She released Dora from another vise grip of a hug and waddled off.

Dora saw her youngest sister, Mercedes, fidgeting as she waited at the back of the room. The lobby of the 99th precinct was gray, dingy, sparsely decorated, and bustling with questionable people and intimidating cops. Carla sat next to Mercy, looking as vacant as she had the night before—like she was asleep with her eyes open. With earbuds in her ears, the environment didn't seem to bother Carla as much as it did Mercy. The ten-year-old mumbled to herself, rocking back and forth nervously. Her eyes flickered to Dora, and she was immediately out of her seat, running to her. Dora desperately wanted to talk to Carla, but she couldn't say no to her baby sister, especially when she was so anxious.

Mercy hesitated when she was close—Dora knew it was because of how haggard she looked, but she put a smile on her face and beckoned her to come forward. Mercy lunged forward and embraced her. Dora kissed her forehead. "I'm so sorry. I know I was gone, but I couldn't help it. Something bad happened in Papi's bar."

Mercy wrinkled her nose. "You smell like him."

Dora clenched her jaw, remembering her father's vices. "Yeah, there was a spill."

"What happened?"

"I was robbed. Bad men tried to take our money. It happens, y'know? But I was saved by—"

"Batman!" her baby sister chirped.

Dora smiled and shook her head. "No, not Batman. This man calls himself Red Hood."

"I've heard of him! I see him on the news all the time. Some people don't like him and say he's a bad guy. Apparently, he kills people... and cuts off their heads..."

"He only kills _bad_ people," Dora emphasized. "Men who deserve to die." As soon as she said it, her mouth felt dry. Did she really mean that? Either way, it wasn't something she should have told an impressionable 10-year-old girl with Asperger's.

Mercy's chin quivered. "But Mami yells at Carla all the time for being bad!" She grabbed Dora's sleeve. "Is he going to kill Carla? I don't want him to hurt Carla, Dora!"

Carla's eyes flicked in their direction at the mention of her name. She finally noticed Dora and pulled off her earbuds.

"No, he won't hurt her," Dora said. She held Mercy's hand and guided her toward Carla. "He's... he's my friend. And we're good people. He won't hurt us. He's protecting us." After everything that had happened, she was certain now.

"But he's scary, Dora. I don't like him."

Dora searched for an answer Mercy would understand, looking from her eyes to Carla's, who was waiting anxiously. She finally said, "Sometimes, a hero has to be scarier than the monsters he fights. Sometimes that's the only way to protect people: scaring off the bad guys. Batman is pretty scary, right? But he's a good guy."

Mercy frowned. "Yeah, but Batman doesn't kill people."

It was as if someone struck a match with Dora's heart. _Maybe he should_ , she thought suddenly, inflamed. _If he did, Gotham wouldn't be harassed by the same assholes again and again._

As quickly as the thought had sparked, it was doused by the disquiet on her baby sister's face. She probably saw the anger on her face, leaving Dora feeling ashamed and sick to her stomach again.

Carla handed Mercy her phone. "Give us a sec, please." As the little girl went back to her seat, Carla pulled Dora aside by a vending machine. "Are you alright?"

"Are _you_?" Dora asked. That seemed like the imperative question. But then she realized that Carla must have been as worried as she was, if not more. She had been the one to stay behind in the Alibi to take on four armed thugs, not Carla. Dora looked down at her bandaged hand. "Yeah, I'm fine. How's Holly— _umph!_ "

Without warning, Carla hugged Dora, so hard she forced the breath out of her.

"I'm so sorry for putting you in that position, Dee," Carla lamented. Dora could feel her tears on her shoulder. "I'm out of that crew, for good. I'll never talk to those dudes again. I'll keep my nose out of that shit. I'll be on the straight and narrow. It's all behind me now, I swear. Don't... just don't tell Mami. Please! She'll kill me!"

Dora pushed Carla back and wiped the tears from her eyes. "What about what I did?"

Carla sniffled and tilted her head. "What do you mean? Almost burning down the bar with a Molotov?"

"No, I..." Dora couldn't finish what she wanted to say—" _I killed someone."—_ in the middle of a police station, with her ten-year-old baby sister within earshot.

"What?" Carla asked, confused.

 _Does she not remember what I did?_ Maybe Carla had missed that part. She never saw Dora actually _kill_ that one thug. She had been huddled under the bar, having a panic attack, trying her best to ignore the situation and will herself out of existence.

Dora pulled Carla back in and hugged her tightly. "Don't worry about it. I'll never tell anyone you were there." And she wouldn't, to keep the lies she told the cops consistent. However, she felt guilty for considering her sister's post-traumatic stress a silver lining. She could take Carla to the free clinic for therapy another time, but for now she just wanted to go home, take a shower, and sleep in her own bed.

"I love you, Dora."

"I love you too, Carla."

As if granting her wish, their mother approached, holding Mercy's hand. "It's nice to see you two finally getting along. Let's go home."


	8. Collapse

**Chapter 8: Collapse**

Dora ripped the orange biohazard sticker off the Alibi's front door. Her mother struggled to get the police tape off the gaping opening that would have been the bar's plate-glass window, so Dora helped her out. "Hopefully all that was enough to keep out looters," Dora said, balling up the tape.

"In this city? On Park Row? I doubt it," said her mother.

The GCPD had taken two whole days to catalog the evidence, and the crime scene cleaners another two to do their jobs—getting rid of all the blood and gore left behind by the bodies. Dora's mother had given the cleaners keys to the bar so they could lock up the kitchen, office, and bathrooms when they were done. However, anyone walking down the street could have just stepped through the tarp that covered the broken front window and take anything they wanted from the main barroom. Dora did just that—it was quicker than walking through the front door.

"Dios mio," Anita gasped.

The crime scene cleaners had stripped down the barroom to its bare bones. Most of the floor panels and carpeting had been removed, baring the concrete foundation underneath. The upholstery from the booths had been ripped out, the couches and armchairs from the lounge area were gone, along with a lot of the tables and chairs. An entire wall had been stripped of its wood paneling, and another had a hole in it big enough to step through to the bathroom behind it. Anti-septic fumes lingered in the air.

"What the fuck happened in here?" Anita asked, staring at the hole in the wall. "And what happened to the pool table?"

When Dora had told her mother what happened that night, she had left out Carla and Holly's participation, and had glossed over the gory bits—like the man that had basically burst like a water balloon when Red Hood's motorcycle slammed him into the pool table. "You don't want to know." She felt her stomach lurch just remembering it. "At least they left the bar alone."

Anita scoffed. The bar was still there, but the wood was cracked and pockmarked with bullet holes. The tap handles were bent or missing. The liquor shelf behind the counter was a ruin and the wall itself was swiss cheese; the mirror and all the shelves were gone, along with the bottles that had been kept there. In fact, _all_ the drinks were gone, including the kegs underneath the counter—and the area _still_ reeked of alcohol. Dora wondered if that was the work of the cleaners or looters.

"Some hero that Red Hood guy is." Anita ran her hand across the scarred bar top, brushing off debris. "He saved us from getting robbed by those gangbangers, but it was the cops that fucked us over."

"What do you mean?"

Anita sighed. "The crime scene cleaners took almost all of the insurance payout. The check is coming, but it's not going to be very much. Paying to fix this place up will have to be out of our pocket mostly."

Dora's heart sank. She remembered the last time they completely renovated the bar—ten years ago. Her parents were in debt for _years_. It wasn't until the President Luthor's relief bailout after the earthquake that they managed to get out of debt, but almost immediately afterward Black Mask took over the rackets on Park Row. The Alibi never stayed pristine and new for very long.

"Don't worry, it'll be alright," Dora said, placing her hand on her mother's shoulder. "We got through it... twice, three times? We can do it again. It's about time, anyway. This place needed an update."

Anita shrugged off Dora's hand. "No. I don't think we can do it this time around. We don't have the money, mija. Black Mask took most of our savings with his damn racket, and the tenants are breaking off their leases because of all the crap that keeps happening here. Entiende, who wouldn't move out with three murders on their doorstep—todo dentro un solo ano. We just don't have the savings or the income to rebuild... We..."

 _No, don't say it, Mami._

But she did. "We have to sell it. Cut our losses and leave this place behind. Let it be someone else's problem."

"But this place, this whole _building_ , has been in our family for generations, we can't just leave it behind..."

" _Your_ family, Dora, not mine."

That stung. A lot. _Te quiero, Mami, pero you're such a bitch._

Dora's mother had estranged herself from her father when they divorced. They had still co-owned the building, but split its management; Monty ran the Alibi on the first floor, while Anita became the supervisor of the apartments upstairs. When Monty died, the first thing Anita wanted to do was lease the Alibi, but Dora convinced her not to.

Taking a breath, Dora tried to settle her emotions. "How else are we going to support ourselves? This place is your _job_ , Mami—and mine. You're not qualified to do anything else. You don't have a high school diploma!"

"Look here, mija, I managed this bar and a dozen apartments, and kept books on all of it, _by myself_ for over twenty years. Your father never did that shit, it was _me_. I have more experience than any fucking CPA or landlord or super in this city that's worked as long. That has to be worth something to somebody."

"Do you really want to demote yourself to being a super elsewhere, if anyone will even hire you, when you've been your own boss for such a long time? You'll make much less money working for someone else than you will for yourself. Tu sabes eso. We need this place. As much as you don't like to admit it, this bar wasn't just Dad's lifeblood, it's yours too. It's mine. Soy Silva, soy Latina, soy de Santa Prisca, como ti, Mami. Pero entienda que tambien soy Montgomery. Yo soy la hija de mi padre."

She couldn't tell if her mother was angry or sad, but either way she was on the verge of tears. "Yo queria mas para ti que esto. You were in college, Dora. You were supposed to be a doctor, not a bartender. And you threw it all away for this dump."

Dora grabbed her mother's shoulders. "Let Carla be the doctor in the family. Let Mercedes be a lawyer, a broker, or an engineer or the fucking president or whatever. I'm willing to sacrifice my future and invest it in this place to give them those opportunities. Like you and Dad did for me."

Those words broke the levee. Anita rummaged through her purse and pulled out a tissue to dab her eyes with. "Fine," she sighed, then cupped Dora's cheek, looking into her face. "You may have gotten my looks, but you were always his daughter more than mine."

悪

Over the next few days, Dora and her mother worked out the finances.

The insurance check was chump change like Anita had expected, so they got a loan from the bank. However, the bank only approved a small amount at a ridiculous interest rate because the Alibi's accounting was a nightmare—poorly kept and inexact, with unexplainable losses and gains all over the place. Her mother was insulted, but Dora thought it was ironic. Their books were only in such terrible shape because of Kosov's and Black Mask's extortion and money laundering over the years.

To supplement the loan, Dora had to take out a title loan on her father's vintage 1969 Chevy Impala, which almost broke her heart. Sometimes she felt like the car was imbued with his spirit more than the Alibi itself. It, too, had been in the family for generations.

But even the loans weren't enough. It took hours of debating, but Dora was able to convince her mother to mortgage the Montgomery building, meaning they no longer owned it—the bank did, but they still had most of the rights to the property.

And with that, they had enough to rebuild the bar, but at the cost of the heaviest debt Dora had ever known in her adult life. She knew _how_ she was going to pay it back—it was just daunting to think how long it would take _._ She couldn't rely on the income sources she had once taken for granted.

Some of the building's tenants had already moved out in the wake of the shooting. More said they weren't going to renew their leases. The rest united, demanding lower rent or else they would move out as well. Dora negotiated with them, at first leaning heavily on sympathy, but she eventually had to convince them that Red Hood was their ally. He would protect them if anything ever happened again—which was unlikely because by now every gangbanger, narco, and mafioso on Park Row knew not to mess with the Alibi, the Montgomery Building, or anyone living in it.

Dora and the tenants agreed to some terms, but it led her to think about Red Hood and if he would actually extend his protection to the tenants like she had promised, not just to her and the Alibi. Lately, it seemed like he was _actually_ protecting her, giving her an uncomfortable new sense of the term "protection money." The monthly twenty-five percent she still owed him weighed on her conscience as much, if not more, than her other debts.

Red Hood had saved her life on two occasions, but she couldn't forget that he was a criminal as much as he was a hero. He killed people, ruthlessly. Bad people, but nonetheless, in the eyes of the law they were people that didn't necessarily have to die. He ran the brothel that Holly worked at now, technically making him her pimp. And Dora had learned through Holly that he had "disposed" of the cocaine Carla had brought into the bar by selling it. That didn't sit right with Dora, but it relieved her somewhat to know that Red Hood sold the cocaine not on the streets of Park Row, nor Gotham's other ghettos like the East End or the Narrows, but instead to the spoiled gentry on the Upper West Side.

Dora had no idea how Red Hood would react when she told him she couldn't make her first payment, let alone the second, or the third, or possibly the fourth. The Alibi wouldn't bring in revenue for at least two weeks because of the remodeling, and they wouldn't make a profit for _years_ because of the debt... And that was only if the bar actually survived that long. She wasn't certain if any of her customers would return, especially if her dwindling tenants were any indication.

When Red Hood wasn't shooting people and cutting off their heads, he seemed like a relatively nice guy... Would he understand? Twenty-five percent of zero was still zero.

As days went by, Dora started to doubt herself more and more, believing she had financially ruined her family, like her father almost did—ten years ago, during the last renovation. The risk had paid off then, but only because of a fortunate government bailout had saved them from bankruptcy.

* * *

悪

"Well, this is the last of it." Carla grunted as she pulled the crowbar back, ripping what remained of the cabinetry away from the wall. The wood cracked, splintered, and finally snapped. She kicked the debris into a pile in the corner.

"Great, thanks," Dora said, not looking Carla's way, busy calculating the cut she had to make on the tile in her hands. She marked it with a pencil and lined it up with the whirring buzz saw.

"Why don't you let the contractors do that?"

"Because they'll charge us." Dora swapped her glasses for safety goggles.

"So?"

"Every penny counts, Carla."

"Be careful, Dee."

"I know what I'm doing." _Pretty much_. Dora was thankful she had learned a lot about home improvement from her father when she was younger, having helped him maintain the apartments upstairs as the super. Lesson one was how not to pay a professional for simple little tasks you could do yourself—if you weren't lazy.

Satisfied with the cut, she blew the dust off the tile and set it on a sawhorse. "You should head home," she said to Carla, looking outside. "It'll be dark soon."

"Mom said to pick up dinner on the way back. What do you feel like tonight?"

Dora fished through her pockets and pulled out a few crumpled bills. "Here, get something from Fausto's."

Carla looked down at the money. "You're not coming with me?"

"Nope." Dora picked up another tile and went to a corner. She knelt down and penciled in some reference marks. "I'll be home in a few hours. The contractors are coming tomorrow, so I have to finish this today."

If she didn't, and continued tomorrow with the contractors around, she and Rochelle would have to endure a pack of beer-bellied Santa Priscan illegals her mother hired (to save money) telling them what to do—whether it was because they thought a woman's handiwork was inferior, or as a pretense to flirt with them.

"Um..." Carla hesitated. "Okay, I guess I'll see you later."

"Yeah. See ya. Don't forget to get a quesadilla for Mercy, and a flan for Mami. You know how she loves those."

Before her sister had even left the bar, Dora was back to work. She had lied to Carla. She knew it would take her more than a few hours to tile the floors—easily all night. But the bar was closed indefinitely, so she could sleep in tomorrow while the contractors worked. Even still, if she wanted to minimize how much she had to deal with them, there was no time to waste.

A few hours later, her back was aching and her knees were sore from all the crawling around... but she was only half done. She still needed to do the lounge area, the pool and darts area, and cut down more tiles for the odd corners by the doors to the office and bathrooms... She groaned as she stretched and popped the kinks in her back. She needed a piss and a cold drink of water before continuing—and maybe some coffee... maybe some rum.

In the bathroom, she washed her face in the sink and ran some water through her hair. As she dried off, someone knocked on the back door.

Dora froze. The knock came again, harder this time. She fumbled for her glasses and slid them on.

When she started renovating the bar a few days ago, the first thing she had done was replace the wooden front and back doors with ones made of industrial-grade steel with magnetic RFID locks. She would have installed a proper security system, complete with cameras and an alarm, but there simply wasn't enough money in the budget.

She poked her head into the kitchen. "Go away! We're closed!"

Whoever was behind the door didn't answer; they only knocked again, more insistent.

Maybe the new steel door was too dense to hear through. It might be Holly, Dora thought. She usually came around at this time of night when she got off work for a free drink and some conversation. But just to be careful, Dora reached for the crowbar Carla had been using earlier, wishing Red Hood hadn't borrowed her father's gun. She felt naked without it now.

She unlocked the back door and it swung open. No one was there. The alley was empty; obscured in darkness except for a dim flickering lamp overhead. She gripped the iron bar tighter.

"Holly? I'm here," Dora called out, stepping outside. "Hello?"

Gravel crunched behind her. She wasn't alone.

Without stopping to think, Dora turned around and swung the crowbar.


	9. Speakeasy

**Chapter 9: Speakeasy**

Dora unlocked the back door. It swung open, but no one was there. The alley was empty; dark except for a lone humming and flickering lamp overhead. She gripped the crowbar in her hand tightly.

"Holly? I'm here," Dora called out, taking a few steps outside. "Hello?"

The gravel crunched behind her. She wasn't alone.

Without stopping to think, Dora turned around and swung the crowbar.

Red Hood caught it, inches from his head. The force of the catch reverberated through the iron back into Dora's hand, causing her to hiss in pain and let go.

He gripped the crowbar tightly for a few seconds—she could hear the leather of his gloves strain. Although not able to see his face, Dora still sensed... was it anger? It radiated off him like heat from a furnace. She was about to apologize when he tossed the crowbar aside. "Kept me waiting long enough. I was about to leave," he said, his stance relaxing. Whatever tension had been there dissipated. "Sorry, did I scare you?"

Her heartbeat was rapid and she had broken into a sweat, but Dora wasn't ashamed to admit it. "Yeah, dude. I thought you were another one of those thugs." A look up and down the alley confirmed he was alone. No bodies. No blood. No thugs.

"Can I come in?"

"Yeah, get in here." Dora pulled him inside. The cops were likely staking out the Alibi, watching her like hawks. The last thing she needed was camera footage that would corroborate Bullock's asinine theory. "What's up? Why are you here?" She already had an inkling why.

"Checking in. Did the GCPD give you any trouble after I left?"

Frowning, Dora wondered how much to tell him. "Nothing I couldn't handle, except..." It wouldn't do him any good to know about the detectives' suspicions, so she just said, "We made a real mess that night, and the GCPD thought the best way to clean it up was to tear up the place."

She led him out of the kitchen into the main barroom. Red Hood whistled, taking it all in. "Yeah, you're not kidding." He walked over to the corner with the jukebox. "Hey, at least they left this old thing." He wiped some sawdust off the machine. "Oh, what's this? That's unusual..."

"What?"

He jabbed at some buttons, flipping through the CDs inside the machine. "Silverstein, Underoath, Saosin, Dead Poetic, Deftones... This isn't the typical dive-bar playlist. You like hardcore metal?"

Dora was impressed that he even knew the proper name of the genre. "Oh, yeah. My dad let me put my own CDs in there. For whenever we'd hang out after hours. He actually closed down the bar for my quinceañera."

Red Hood scoffed. "You don't seem like the party type of girl."

"I'm not, but it wasn't your typical party. We rounded up the local hardcore kids to jam, mosh, and headbang. And gorge ourselves on cake and pop. That's how the scene is in Crime Alley."

"Very cool of your dad. Not many parents condone that kind of music."

"Yeah, he was a great guy." Saying so prodded a dull ache in her chest. "I want to do the same for my little sisters when they turn fifteen. My dad would've wanted that."

Red Hood took a look around. "So I take it you're going to rebuild the place, then? That's going to cost a shit load of money. How much was the insurance payout?"

 _I fucking knew it, he wants a cut._ "Yeah, about that... Look, Red Hood, I... I don't know how to say this, but... I'm sorry, I can't..."

Red Hood put his hand on her shoulder; she immediately stopped stammering. "Yeah, I guessed money would be tight, so don't sweat it. You know that coke your little sister almost got you killed over? It brought in some decent cash, so consider us even. That should let you get back on your feet, right?"

Dora was extremely conscious of his touch. It felt like electricity was surging through their contact; her heart thumped loudly. "What, really? You'll let us... Um... wow. How much was it all worth?"

"About $250,000, give or take."

" _What?_ Carla was running around Crime Alley with a quarter million dollars on her back?" Dora shrugged off Red Hood's hand. "Her crew might as well have painted a target on her!"

Red Hood made a frustrated noise, something between a groan and a growl. "Yeah, I know. The LU likes using kids as runners. Black Mask's crew is no different. That's the kind of crap I'm trying to stop. People will always want drugs, but they should at least have enough decency to keep kids out of it." He took a few deep breaths, collecting himself. The eye-slits in his mask seemed to glow brighter. "Crime isn't a disease, Dora, you can't cure it. It's human nature; it can be controlled and kept in check, but never denied. I want to put an end to the darkest parts of Gotham, so that people who want to ruin their own lives don't ruin anyone else's."

"How are you so sure that will even work?"

"Look at Las Vegas. Gambling is legal there. You could argue that gambling can lead to addiction and financially ruin someone's life, but city's economy benefits from it—they turned it into an industry. In Amsterdam, some forms of drugs and prostitution are legal and regulated, so it keeps even the people that participate in it safe."

Dora had never thought of it that way. She began to ponder the implications when she noticed Red Hood removing his jacket. "What are you doing?"

"I'm assuming since you're here by yourself in the middle of the night, you have work to do that can't wait for tomorrow. I'll give you a hand. So you get it done quicker. Is that alright?"

"No, it's okay, you don't have to—um..." She would have argued, but Red Hood was undressing in front of her and she really didn't want to stop him.

The motorcycle jacket had hidden a light flak jacket underneath with a varied assortment of pockets and straps for guns, magazines, knives, and all kinds of other tactical military gear. It must have had some type of deceptively hidden armor plating in it because it made a low _thump_ when he dropped it on the floor. His utility belt and thigh holsters came off next.

"Whoa," was all Dora could say.

"Yeah, I know. My gear's pretty bulky." He twisted his waist and popped the kinks out of his back.

But that wasn't what Dora had "whoa-ed" about. _Holy crap, he's fit as fuck…_

Without the jacket and vest, Red Hood seemed to lose a hundred pounds (though his gear probably did weigh that much for all she knew). The gear had made him appear bulkier than he actually was. Without it, it revealed that he had a slim lean build, and the clever stitching of his skin-tight black shirt accentuated his three-dimensional torso.

"So where do I start?" he asked, stretching his arms.

It was suddenly unbearably hot in the room. "I was, um... tiling the floors. The stuff is there. I'll show you how to do it in a sec, but would you, um, excuse me?" Before he could reply, Dora hurried into the bathroom. She went to the sink and splashed her face with water, willing herself not to think the things she was thinking. _He's a criminal, don't forget that. You've got work to do, so focus._ She flushed a toilet for appearances.

When she came back out, Dora noticed that Red Hood had removed his gloves and rolled up his sleeves. This was the first time she had ever seen his bare skin... and it was relatively fair, lighter than her own dark olive skin. He had big hands and muscular forearms. They were clean, but he had callouses all over his knuckles—some were red, suggesting that he had given someone a pounding recently.

Dora set to work, showing Red Hood how she wanted the tiles done while trying to look at him as little as possible. She instructed him to take the pool and darts area, just so she wouldn't feel the electricity buzzing on her skin when he was nearby.

The task flew by quickly, aided by Red Hood turning on the jukebox. He knew the lyrics to some of the songs she liked. Fortunately, it wasn't endearing because he was a poor singer. Not to mention the fact that a man in a red helmet/mask laying down laminate tiles looked kind of ridiculous, no matter how fit he was. Dora couldn't wait to tell Holly tomorrow.

* * *

悪

Dora hammered in the last strip of molding and tossed the mallet aside. Rolling onto her back, she shouted, "Finally!" She pushed off her glasses and wiped the sweat from her face. "Hey, you done?" she called out to Red Hood, wherever he was.

"Yeah, all done. Need a hand?" He was closer than Dora had thought. When she put her glasses back on, he was standing above her, offering her his hand.

"Sure." She took it, and he pulled her up so quickly she got dizzy. She held onto his arm to prevent herself stumbling. When the world stopped spinning, she realized she was only inches away from him, her eyes level with his chest. She looked up. _He's so tall; he's got over a foot on me,_ she marveled, remembering Holly telling her how Red Hood picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder like she weighed nothing more than a sack of potatoes.

Dora took a big step back. "Hey, listen…" She went around tidying up tools and trash to hide her reddening face. "Thanks for helping me out. I owe you. For the trouble."

"How about a drink and we call it even?" he offered, putting his gear back on.

 _A drink?_ _If he wants a drink, he has to..._ "Yeah, sure."

As she led Red Hood into the kitchen, he took the tool bag away from her so she wouldn't have to lug it there. At the refrigerator, she pulled out a water bottle and tossed it to him. Feeling anxious as she took a sip from her own bottle, she couldn't help but stare at him. He _had_ take off his helmet to drink something, but after everything Montoya said… Was it really a good idea to see his face?

"Thanks," he said—but he placed the bottle on the counter. "I was actually thinking about something stronger. Maybe when the Alibi is up and running again, I can open a tab."

"Oh, you meant… Right, yeah. No, don't worry about a tab." Dora scoffed, feigning nonchalance to hide her disappointment. "After all you've done for me and this place, all your drinks are on the house, for life. It's the least I can do."

"Cool. See you around, then. I guess I don't have to tell you to keep out of trouble. Take care, Dora."

Nervously tapping the counter, she watched Red Hood walk toward the door, wondering when she would see him again.

"Oh. Before I forget." Red Hood stopped at the door, drawing a gun. Dora's heart skipped a beat for a second, but he deftly twirled it so the muzzle was in his palm. "Here." He held it out for her.

It her father's Colt. She took it, gripping it tightly in one hand while running her fingers along the smooth metal with the other. She didn't have to release the magazine—she could tell it was loaded by its weight. _What would Dad think of everything that's been happening?_ His little girl had killed a man; she had become friends with a vigilante in a red helmet that cut off people's heads like a serial killer and blew up buildings like a terrorist. Did she really want to know what was behind his mask?

Then she thought, _Fuck it_ , _why not. The cops are already convinced I know what he looks like. It can't hurt to peek._ "Hey, do you like whiskey?" she blurted out, before her conscience could kick in.

Red Hood paused with his hand on the back-door's handle. "Yeah, actually. Love the stuff."

"My dad loved it, too. He's actually got a few good vintages."

"Really?"

"Do you have to be anywhere right now? How about a nightcap?"

Red Hood turned around and stood there for a minute. The shape of his helmet's glowing eye slits made it look like his brow was furrowed. For a moment, he looked like he had in the alley a few hours earlier. Dora could imagine what criminals felt when he stared them down. Afraid and very small.

"Sure, that sounds good," he finally said; the sudden nonchalance in his voice didn't match the serious expression frozen on his mask.

Dora nodded awkwardly. "Follow me, then." She holstered her father's gun into her waistband as she went over to the pantry. Flipping a switch inside the room revealed boxes of liquor stacked on shelves as high as the ceiling. She had always thought the room was quite large, but with a six-foot man inside with her, it suddenly felt cramped.

"So this is where you stash all the good stuff?"

"Not quite." Dora went to the back of the room and shoved aside a large crate of vodka that had been blocking a door. It wasn't exactly hidden, but the door was difficult to notice under the dim lighting and all the clutter. She picked a key from of her chain and unlocked it.

"It's pretty obvious, but this is a really old building," she said, walking down a flight of concrete stairs. "It's been in my family for generations. Hard to believe now, but my father's side of the family was actually really well off at the start of the 1900s. After my great-grandparents hopped off the boat from England, they fell in with the Italian and the Irish mobs during Prohibition. They started a few speakeasies and made a killing. My family has lived in this building for generations, but my grandfather didn't buy it off the original owners until the fifties or sixties or something. When the Cold War started to get real bad, he made the building earthquake-proof and converted the old basement speakeasy into a bunker."

"That's pretty cool," Red Hood said, running his hand along the concrete wall as they descended, as if he could feel the history in the bricks.

"Yeah, it helped us survive the quake that hit Gotham a few years ago, but my dad said the renovation nearly bankrupted the family before it even hit. Seems like it's the family curse. Each generation gets us poorer and poorer." Dora reached another door at the bottom of the stairs, made of iron with a hatch wheel.

"What do you mean?"

Dora turned the wheel with a heave. The rusted metal screeched. "Ten years ago, my dad spent a ton of money he didn't have renovating the bar, and when he did that, he also converted the bunker into a cellar for high-shelf liquor and wine. And then I go and do it _again_ now, trying to rebuild this place and keep it afloat with half a dozen loans I might never be able to pay off. My mother warned me, but I wouldn't listen." The wheel stopped with a clank. Dora pulled the door open. "At least I didn't use a loan shark like my dad."

"Who else knows about this place?" Red Hood followed her inside the dark room.

"It's not really a secret, but I guess… only my family, the other bartender Rochelle, and my friend Holly." Dora fumbled around the wall until she found a lever. She pushed it up and the room lit up in a chorus of hums and snaps.

"This doesn't look like a liquor cellar," Red Hood observed. The basement was a wide open space with concrete walls and floors, dimly lit by hanging incandescent light bulbs. Boxes and shelves of liquor dominated one wall, but the opposite side of the room had a sofa, coffee table, a desk, TV, stereo, and a small bed. There was even a microwave oven and a hot plate next to a sink and mini-fridge. "Looks like someone's dingy apartment."

"Yeah, my dad." Dora went over to the sink and rinsed a few glasses. "When my mom dumped him, he started living her. He had no other place to go. It was during the crisis after the earthquake. No Man's Land."

"But your family owns a dozen apartments upstairs..." Red Hood put down his gear again and reclined on the sofa. The way he sank into the cushions made it clear he was as tired as she was.

"In the divorce, my mom and dad split the building in half. She got the apartments, he got the bar. She didn't want anything to do with my dad, and that included leasing him a place to stay."

"Wow, your mom's kind of..."

"A bitch?" Dora chuckled. "Yeah, she can be. She eventually eased up and let him move upstairs, but she made him stew down here for well over a year after the quake." She shook the two glasses dry and placed them on the coffee table. "Sorry, no ice," she said, checking the mini-fridge.

"That's okay, I like my whiskey neat."

Dora went to the crates of liquor and perused the dusty labels. She pulled out a bottle. "So what would you like? Glenkinchie? Lagavulin?"

"You've got Lagavulin? A shot of that would be awesome."

She blew the dust off the bottle as she walked over to the sofa. Red Hood took the bottle from her as she sat down. "Wow, this scotch is older than I am..." He brought the label close to his mask... and his eyes glowed blue for a second. "It's legit."

Dora ignored that Red Hood had some type of high-tech scanning equipment in his helmet, concentrating instead on the fact that he must be in his twenties—because she already knew that the bottle of whiskey was thirty years old. But she wanted a more exact number. "Hey, if you don't mind me asking... how old are you?"

He put the bottle down. "Not much older than you, actually." He touched something on the back of his helmet. Dora heard a click and the light glowing from the mask's eyes shut off.

She held her breath. The moment had finally come.

There was a pneumatic hiss as panels spread apart at the helmet's chin, sides, and back. Red Hood took it off and Dora finally saw his face.

Most of it.

To her disappointment, underneath the helmet, Red Hood had another mask. A small red one that only covered his eyes, like the ones she had seen on Nightwing, Robin, and many other vigilantes and villains on the news. She had always wondered what was the point of such a small mask, but even though she was sitting right next to him, she couldn't see the full shape of his nose, his eyebrows, nor the color of his eyes; the mask had a mold and glowing white lenses that concealed them. It covered no more than what a large pair of sunglasses would, but it was enough to make her uncertain whether he was Caucasian, Hispanic, Arabic, Asian... or even a mix of any race.

However, she could clearly see Red Hood had a fair complexion with shaggy coal-black hair. He had some stubble on his well-defined jaw, and the skin underneath the scruff was smooth. _He kinda looks like Nightwing... but younger._ He couldn't have been more than two or three years older than she was. He might even be younger for all she knew.

 _Pero que guapo_ , she couldn't help but think. On top of being a badass vigilante and fit as hell, he was also pretty damn cute. _For fuck's sake, why are some people so damn lucky?_ Dora's genetic lottery bid had awarded her a short stature, large hips, flat feet, and astigmatism.

Red Hood noticed her staring and cracked a charming smile. "Yeah, this thing," he said, touching his domino mask. "You can never be too careful."

"I agree."

It was Red Hood's turn to feel awkward, so he broke eye contact to pour the whiskey. He gave Dora her tumbler and took a moment to smell his drink. "You know, such good scotch deserves a toast."

Dora finally stopped staring at him and looked down at the swirling golden liquid in her own cup. "Yeah, but to what?"

"How about... to Monty." He raised his glass. "Despite his flaws, he was a good man."

That struck Dora's heartstrings, resonating with all the bittersweet memories she had of her father over the years. "Yeah. To Monty." The sum total was more sweet than bitter, she told herself. They clinked cups and swallowed their drinks. "Wow, that's really smooth," she marveled, looking at the dregs in amazement. It didn't burn at all going down and it tasted _good_.

"Yeah, that's damn good scotch," Red Hood said, having the same reaction. "I guess that's why this stuff is expensive. You didn't have to waste some on me."

"No, it's okay." Dora grabbed the bottle and poured another round. "It's been sitting down here for years, that's the real waste. One of my dad's mistakes, buying vintage high-shelf stuff. Our customers aren't exactly the type to care enough about what they're drinking to shell out the big bucks. As good as it is, we can't sell this stuff."

"Why didn't he just sell it back to his liquor vendor?"

Dora scoffed bitterly. "My dad didn't get all this booze above board. He got it all from the Odessa Mob, who smuggled it from overseas… and they don't do refunds."

"Wow, your dad was… an interesting man." Red Hood sipped slowly at the whiskey this time, pausing to savor the taste.

"Hey, um..." Dora pulled her feet up on the couch. "What did you mean earlier by my dad's flaws?"

"Oh. You know. His, uh... drinking problem."

Dora's brow tightened. "How do you know about his drinking problem?"

Red Hood hesitated. She couldn't see his eyes, but she could tell he was trying to avoid looking at her. "No offense, Dora, but people talk. Everyone in Crime Alley knew about your dad's drinking problem."

She knew that, but it surprised her that Red Hood did. "But he was sober for years, up until he died. How'd you know about that?"

"You assume I'm new to town, but I grew up here."

"In Gotham? I guessed as much, so give me some credit."

"Yeah, but I mean I was born and raised _here,_ in Crime Alley. On Park Row. Same as you. Why do you think I'm sticking my neck out for this place? It's my home too, Dora. It's in my blood as much as it's in yours."

Impressed, Dora toasted to that. As the shot went down her throat, it occurred to her that if they were near the same age, she likely went to school with Red Hood, whoever he was. She sifted through her memories, trying to remember a classmate or kid from the block that could have turned out to become a vigilante… but almost every boy that lived on Park Row ended up a convict, a deadbeat, or… dead.

But she refocused on something he said earlier. "So, wait, you knew my father?"

"No, I knew _about_ Monty. Met him a few times. But I never knew him personally. You know how word travels up and down this neighborhood. I don't know the fact from fiction, though. Tell me about him."

"You really want to listen to me talk about my dad?"

Red Hood poured himself another shot and reclined back on the sofa. "Word of mouth had Monty as a sleazy guy, a drunk and a deadbeat dad. But I can tell you loved him very much, so I want to know what you thought of him."

"Um... sure." Dora took a sip of her drink for courage. Then she told Red Hood about her father, Philip Montgomery.

He wasn't always a drunk. What made him crawl into the bottle was the pressure he was facing from Vasily Kosov and the Odessa Mob to pay back the debt he owed, on top of the extortion money. It was a steady decline, but the alcoholism eventually got so bad, he got into an accident while driving drunk—with Carla and Mercy in the backseat. Both Dora's sisters were hurt in the accident, so her mother didn't bother to post his bail, or hire him a lawyer. Instead, she let him stew in jail while she filed for divorce and took full custody of their three daughters.

At first, Dora was just as angry at him as her mother was, but she finally understood his remorse when he attempted to kill himself by jumping off the top of the Montgomery building. He would have succeeded if not for the dumpster he landed in. Her mother still had no sympathy, so Dora took it upon herself to help her father recover. She took him to therapy, Alcoholics Anonymous, made sure he abided his parole—even stayed in Gotham after the earthquake to help him protect and rebuild the building. Over the years, her parents began to reconcile their differences, but not quite enough to remarry. Carla and Mercy were beginning to trust him again... to _love_ him again.

Then Black Mask and his men killed him.

Dora tossed back one last shot and put her cup down. "I... watched Black Mask kill my father. I couldn't do anything, Sergei was holding me back, and his boys just stood there. They just fucking stood there and watched a good man get beaten to a pulp, passing around a bottle of vodka, egging on Black Mask like they were watching a boxing match." She willed her tears to stay inside and looked at Red Hood. "They left him barely alive and he died before the ambulance arrived. I tried everything I had learned in school, but I couldn't save him. He needed me and I let him down…"

Red Hood scooted closer to her. "I don't know what you're feeling so guilty about, Dora. You tried and that's what matters. What more could you have done?"

Dora pushed him away, angry. He didn't understand. "But I could have done something- _should_ have done something. Sergei and his boys all had their hands in wetwork. They fucking bragged about it at my bar, right in front of me, all the fucking time... Escaping run-ins with Batman, and getting released from Blackgate on early parole because of fucking _overcrowding_. Can you believe it?" Dora pulled out her father's gun and gripped it tight, the anger inside her boiling. "My father's killers drank at my bar, with his gun right there under the counter, for _months_. I could've avenged him _myself_ , I had a thousand chances... but I never did. I was too much of a coward. I... just couldn't... I... _Argh_!"

She jumped up suddenly and fired the gun. Again and again, at the liquor on the shelves—bottles exploded until the magazine was empty. "Fuck!" she screamed and kicked the coffee table. "Fucking fuck!"

Red Hood didn't so much as flinch. He only stood up and pried the gun out of her hand. "Calm down."

"Get the fuck off me!" she shouted, pushing him away.

"Hey! Chill!" Red Hood grabbed her by the shoulders, his grip too strong for her to escape. "I saw you fight back that night we met in the alley. And last week, in the bar, you protected your loved ones. You saved them. I didn't. _You_ did. You did what you had to do and you didn't hesitate. Months ago, you saved dozens of lives in the gang war. People still talk about it." He took her hand, being careful of the burn. "I'm looking at you right now, Dora, and I can see the fight in you—the defiance. You don't need a mask to be a hero. You just need to care about other people and be willing to get off your ass to do it. From what I've seen and heard, you risk your own safety for the sake of others all the time. Don't sell yourself short. You're braver than you think. Your father would be proud of you."

Dora's heart was racing, and her insides were burning so hot she wanted to scream again. Red Hood's eyes were hidden behind a mask, but he was looking straight at her, _into_ her—so she wouldn't allow herself to cry. Not after what he just said.

So she kissed him.

She grabbed him by the back of the neck but whether she pulled him down or herself up, she didn't know because his lips were on hers and nothing else mattered—it felt good, it felt _right_.

It was only when she pulled away for a breath that she realized he wasn't kissing her back. His mouth was closed, his nostrils were flared, and his masked eyes were impossible to read. Her heart sank. "Oh my god, I'm sorry." She looked down at the half-empty bottle on the coffee table. "I... I'm drunk, I don't know what I was thinking—"

This time Dora was on the receiving end of an unexpected kiss, one that took her breath away and made her knees weak. Luckily, she didn't need to stand because Red Hood grabbed her behind the hips and lifted her up. Suddenly, she was weightless, only tethered to the reality by his lips. She locked her ankles behind him so she wouldn't float away.

And then she was falling. Her back hit something soft and she felt Red Hood's weight land on top of her. She was laying on her back, whether if it was on the sofa, the bed, or the floor, she didn't know and didn't care.

Their lips mashed together, exchanging breath; their bodies rubbed together, exchanging heat and pleasure. Dora dug her nails into Red Hood's back and clawed off his shirt. When she brought her lips to his skin again, she felt the rough texture of his chest hair and the firmness of his muscles. She latched onto the crook of his neck and sucked and bit.

But Red Hood wouldn't allow it. He grabbed her jaw and pulled it away, her mouth detaching with a gasp, one that turned into a moan when he put his own lips on her neck—right underneath her ear. Dora's body went limp, and the next thing she knew her t-shirt and bra were suddenly gone. Red Hood pinned her arms above her head with one hand, while the other was on her breast. They kissed again, and Dora felt like he was sucking the breath right out of her.

When he dragged his mouth to her collarbone, some sense returned to her. "Stop," she said. Red Hood didn't listen, his mouth inched closer to her breast, his lips and breath hot on her skin. "Ooooh... Wait, stop... Stop, please... Hey! Stop!"

She hit him on the shoulder a few times, and when he wouldn't let off, she grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled his head back. "I said _stop_!"

Red Hood finally listened. He pulled away and sat back, breathless. "Sorry. I... You're hard to resist."

Although she was frightened at first, Dora could tell he was telling the truth. She felt his erection poking her through only a few layers of fabric. He was hard to resist too—she wouldn't be lying bare-breastedin front of him if he wasn't. She had to slow down and think, but it was difficult to do with her brain soaked in alcohol and Red Hood sitting topless in front of her.

He slouched and fidgeted with his coal black hair, suddenly bashful. "Yeah, I know. I'm pretty fucked up."

 _Fucked up?_ Dora got up on her elbows and wiped the fog from her glasses to get a proper look at him. His impeccably toned stomach muscles flexed loose and taut rapidly, still breathing heavily. The fair skin on his chest had a light smattering of hair, but it was blemished by bumpy red scars that marked his whole torso. Having treated those types of wounds in the gang war, she recognized multiple bullet wounds, stab wounds, cuts, abrasions, and a burn that extended from his shoulder to the center of his chest. He was even missing a nipple.

His body was a battlefield.

But her own body didn't care how broken he was. She wanted to do exactly what Bullock and Montoya wanted to arrest her for—and she was finding it difficult to care. _You're about to fuck a killer_ , she reminded herself.

 _But I'm a killer too,_ another side of herself said. _The cops never have to know. Who I sleep with is none of their business. It can't be too hard to keep this a secret._

"What's wrong?" Red Hood asked.

"I'm thinking."

"About what?"

"... Us. What are we doing?"

"I was hoping we were about to have sex." He grabbed her by the waist and pulled her up, so that she was straddling his lap-and his erection.

"I know..." She shuddered, feeling his manhood poking her. "... but we're both drunk. We have to slow down."

"Why? You started this."

"What?"

" _You_ kissed me," Red Hood said with a sly smile. " _You_ served me the drink."

"Yeah, but... Look, we barely know each other. I don't know your real name. I don't even know what you really look like."

"What? Is this still too much?" He tapped his domino mask.

"Yeah, I won't have sex with you with that thing on. I may be a Park Row girl, but I draw the line at sleeping with a guy whose name and face I don't even know."

Red Hood didn't say anything for several moments. He just looked at her through the white lenses of his mask. Dora's breathing fell in time with his. Finally, he said, "Can I trust you?"

She was almost offended. "I'm not a criminal like half the people in this borough, but I'm not a snitch either. Can _I_ trust _you_? I know you're just trying to do the right thing, but... you blow up buildings and kill people. They call you a _terrorist_ on the news."

In response, Red Hood slid her glasses up, her bangs too, exposing her full face. He ran a thumb over her bottom lip. "You're a beautiful person, Dora. Inside and out. I'm out there, every night, fighting the worst Gotham has to offer, so sometimes it's hard to remember that people like you still exist here. You have to know that I'd never hurt you. You remind me of what I'm fighting for."

That satisfied her, so she kissed him again. As she mashed her lips to his, she thought, _If I get this mask off, I don't care what he looks like, we'll do it. I just want to see his eyes. Let's make love like normal people, not fuck like strangers._

Pulling away, she found her hands on Red Hood's face. She was touching his mask, and her fingers were already peeling it off. He wasn't stopping her.

A gasp broke through the silence, but it didn't come from Dora or Red Hood. They both looked at the door.

Holly stood there, eyes wide, hand over her mouth. "Holy. Shit."


	10. Sober

**Chapter 10: Sober**

"What the hell?" Dora untangled herself from Red Hood. She tumbled off the bed and looked around for her bra—her shirt, a pillow, a blanket... anything at all to cover her naked chest. "You don't knock? What's wrong with you?"

"The door was open!" Holly tried to contain the smile on her face, but couldn't. She looked at Red Hood. "Who's the cutie, Dee?"

"Um..." She couldn't answer. Her mind was racing, trying to think of an excuse, trying to find something to wear. She gave up and just covered her breasts with her arms. "Just... get out of here, Holly!" But Holly just stood there, basking in her embarrassment with a stupid grin on her face.

"Don't worry, she can stay. I have to go anyway," Red Hood said. He found Dora's top and tossed it to her.

"Wait, no..." Dora said, slipping it on quickly. She realized it was sheer and on backwards, but she didn't care. Where could he possibly have to be? A minute ago he had enough free time for sex, but now that Holly had cock-blocked him, he didn't? "Hey, you don't have to go... I can make her leave." She held his hand tightly, trying to show him how much she wanted him to stay.

"Can't be sure she wasn't followed here." He pulled his hand away.

A lame excuse. Dora feared she knew the truth. The interruption had sobered him up and made him reconsider revealing his identity to a desperate girl from the ghetto, with daddy issues. Not to mention she also had both an illegal immigrant _and_ a hooker for best friends, as well as a drug runner for a sister.

Pissed off but not wanting to show it, Dora glared at Holly behind Red Hood's back and gestured aggressively that she had to leave. Holly either didn't notice or just ignored Dora's signals. She stood there and ogled Hood, unabashed, as he slipped his jacket over his bare back. He reached into the collar and pulled out a detachable red hood large enough to conceal most of his face.

"It's okay, Dora," he said. "I'll see you around." He bent down and kissed her lips, lingering for a long moment, then he placed her glasses back into her hands.

When their lips lost contact, Dora felt a magnetic pull. She wondered if he felt it too, and if it meant he would come back. He had to; he couldn't leave her hanging like this.

He grabbed his gear and on the way out the door; he whispered something to Holly. She smirked, not looking him in the face, but at his taut torso. "Sure thing, boss. Your secret is safe with me."

Red Hood scoffed and left, zipping up his jacket without looking back. Dora ran across the room, and sealed the door. "What the fuck, Holly?" she shouted. "What the hell was that? Can't you take a hint? Why didn't you just leave?"

"And pass up the chance to check out my boss while he's shirtless ? He's a babe, isn't he? And hey... you are too." Her eyes lowered. "You've got nice tits, Dee. You should show them off more often. I've got some tops you can borrow if you're ever in the mood."

Dora crossed her arms, annoyingly reminded of Holly's job. She stomped over to the sofa and fell into it, groaning. She was frustrated. _Very_ frustrated.

"Blue tubes?" Holly asked, sitting down and putting Dora's feet in her lap.

"Holly, just... _Grrr_!" Dora really hated her right now. "What the hell are you even doing here?"

"Carla was worried about you. You weren't picking up your phone, so she called and asked me to check if you were still at the bar. She said you promised you'd be home hours ago."

Groaning, Dora slapped her forehead. "Damn it, that's right. I kinda lost track of time."

Holly giggled, looking at the half empty bottle of whiskey. "Yeah, I see why. Can't blame you. ... So are you and Red Hood, like, together now?"

"No."

"Do you know his name?" Holly prodded.

"No."

"Have you seen his face yet? I mean without that little mask on?"

"No."

Holly smiled. "Oh, so it's just casual?"

"No! I mean I don't know!" Dora said, aggravated. "We were kinda figuring that out when you barged in."

"Hey, I didn't _barge_ in."

"You might as well have. Why did you leave when I told you to?"

Holly shrugged. "C'mon, he was practically halfway out the door once he realized I was there. Sorry, but not sorry, Dee."

"Oh, fuck you, Holly." Dora gave her the finger.

"Hey, I'm game if you are. Seeing you two together kinda got my motor running." She traced circles on Dora's knee, and a mischievous smile spread on her face.

Dora slapped her hand away and blushed, embarrassed. "Stop!"

"Fine, fine!" Holly said, laughing. "So are you going home tonight?"

"No. I'm too fucking tired to walk five blocks." Dora swung her legs off Holly's lap and dragged herself to the bed. She kicked off her shoes and unbuttoned her jeans, glad for once her bra was already off.

"Mind if I crash here tonight too?" Holly said while typing up a text to Carla.

Dora didn't say anything for a moment, considering it. "Fine," she groaned. "Take the couch."

Sprawling out, Holly smiled. "If I had left... you were going to rub one out, huh?"

Dora threw a pillow at her.

#

* * *

$3,000 for flooring. $6,000 for the new pool tables. $4,000 for the new bar counter and the shelf behind it. $3,000 for all the new booths, tables, and chairs. $4,500 more to renew the liquor license. $6,000 to restock all the liquor the LU had destroyed. Plus another dozen odds and ends eating away her funds. All of it was covered by the loan she had gotten for mortgaging the Montgomery building, but every invoice still cut deep. $8,000 monthly, for the foreseeable future, to pay it back.

Dora brooded in one of those newly upholstered booths, with invoices and receipts spread out on the table in front of her, silently trying to keep her composure. The bar averaged about $20,000 in revenue a month—on a _good_ month. Having to pay off all the expenses on credit, she would barely break even every month, and probably not see a profit for _years._ She needed an accountant to be sure, to help trim the fat off her expenses and work out more efficient payment plans for all her loans. Her mother had kept books for the bar and the flats in the building for almost 20 years, but she was far and away from qualified despite the experience. Even if a CPA was willing to overlook all the extortion and laundering in the books, Dora didn't think she could afford one.

What she really needed was her father. He would know what to do.

"Oye, mija, que vamos hacer? Estas segura con sus opciones?"

Dora snapped out of her thoughts and back into reality. The foreman of the contractors her mother had hired stood by the table, looking at her with an impatient expression. "I'm sorry, what?" Dora asked.

The foreman rolled his eyes and spoke to her in heavily accented English. "I want to ask you, are you sure you do not want marble? Looks better than wood."

It was Dora's turn to be annoyed. She had already told this guy she didn't want marble countertops for the bar, she wanted wood. Marble was too expensive. "El madera, por cierto."

"And for sinks? My men have the porcelain packed in the truck."

Dora groaned. "Steel. I want the steel sinks."

"Sorry, but is not whole point of remodel to make bar look better? You had wood counters before, had steel sinks before."

"Listen, dude, I'm not made of money. If you want this job, then just do what I say and don't argue with me. I could always find some Americans with _licenses_ to do it." She hated to pull that card, not just because it was a complete bluff (she couldn't afford licensed contractors), but more because it was undermining these immigrant workers who were as much Santa Priscan as her mother. She felt a bad taste in her mouth just having said those words.

The man gave her a nasty look for a fraction of a second, but wiped it away just as quick. It still left Dora feeling ashamed. "Of course," he said, and turned back to his men with a nod.

Dora looked again at the papers strewn across the table. She had lost her train of thought, not that she had made any progress working out how to dig herself out all this debt. Right now the only plan was to just carry on, earn as much as she could, and chip away at the balance. The overhead left just enough for her family to get by, not as well off as before, but good enough—assuming her tenants upstairs didn't keep moving out. With an exhausted sigh, Dora stacked up the papers. Her desk in the office hadn't been big enough for her to work on, but at least it had provided her some privacy from the contractors. Maybe she could sneak in a nap while she was in there.

"Is there any room in all that left for me?"

"Rochelle!" Dora lit up at the sight of Rochelle's bright green eyes and even brighter smile. She pulled her into a fervently tight hug. Dora hadn't seen her since the night the LU trashed the bar, and in the wake of all that had happened, she forgot how much she missed her best friend. "I'm sorry I haven't called you back, things have been crazy busy around here."

Rochelle looked around at some of the unfinished parts of the bar—the bullet holes in the barshelf, the hole in the wall leading to restrooms—she seemed amused. "Yeah, I can see that. I leave you alone and everything goes to shit."

Dora suppressed a laugh. "Why are you here?"

Rochelle's forehead puckered but there was a smirk on her lips. "What the hell do you mean, 'why am I here?' I'm here to make certain I still have a job! The Alibi's hosted three crime scenes within the last fucking _year_ , two of those within the last bloody month—and I really mean _bloody_ now, Dee. It's been totally trashed. I heard from Holly that you _sold_ the fucking place."

"I didn't sell it. I mortgaged it."

"Dee, I don't know what difference that makes here in the states... I don't even know what to think. You haven't called, you haven't texted."

"I'm so sorry, Rochelle. And of course you still have a job. Honestly, I just couldn't find a minute..." Just thinking of all the distractions lately made her head spin. _Applying for the loans, dealing with vendors and licensing, looking for cheap contractors, then all the renovation work, both what I have to oversee and what I have to do myself. And to top it all, Red Hood stopping by and causing a swirling wake of... feelings... and disappearing._ Now that she thought of it, Dora realized what she really needed all this time was a friend, a confidante. She needed Rochelle.

"Wow, Dora," Rochelle said, concern etching on her face as she studied her. "You really look like you need to relax."

A bitter laugh broke out of Dora. "Tell me something I don't know."

Rochelle hugged her tightly, and it took all of Dora's self-control not to break out crying.

"Do you need help with anything?" Rochelle asked, rubbing her shoulder.

"Not really..." Dora looked around the barroom—at the floors, the furniture, the fixings—the hole still in the wall. There wasn't much left that she or anyone else unskilled could do that the contractors couldn't do better or quicker. She and Red Hood had taken care of all the small stuff last night.

"Well, the place is going to look better. Nevermind the shit that happened in here, it was due for an update anyway," Rochelle said looking around. "You got new pool tables, I see."

"Yeah, they cost me $3,000. Each." Dora walked over to the nearby wall and flicked a switch, turning on the lamps hanging over the tables. Those were $75 each.

"Red felt?" Rochelle touched the fabric on top of one of the tables, her eyebrow arched.

"Figured it was a refreshing change from the usual green."

"Is that all?" she asked with a knowing smirk. "Why not black or blue or purple?"

It didn't occur to Dora why she had picked red felt over the other colors until just now. "It... matches the bricks." She gestured at the walls. She didn't feel too badly about the pool tables, knowing that they were a safe investment. Having two new and balanced pool tables with fresh untorn felt and a full set of balls would certainly attract customers. Especially here in Crime Alley, where the denizens liked to wager on _everything_. Her brain then began to whir thinking of the possibilities—if she struck a deal with a bookie and got two or three flat screens, maybe they could bring in a bit more customers... The cellar was a perfect place to host poker games... but she was getting ahead of herself. Would her father have approved of the Alibi becoming an underground casino?

"Yikes," Rochelle eyeing Dora's brain blast with concern. "It's obvious you need to unwind a bit, so why don't we play a game of 8-ball?" She didn't wait of an answer and racked up. A game of rock-paper-scissors let Dora break. She made a solid in, so she lined up another shot. While she did that, Rochelle asked, "So this Red Hood guy..."

Dora's cue hit the felt. She cursed. This game was meant to calm her down. "What about him? He's the reason we're in this mess, isn't he?" She shot again but didn't score.

"Oh, cut the act," Rochelle said. "Holly told me everything."

Dora pinched the bridge of her nose and groaned. "Then there's no point in me telling you."

Rochelle took her shot. It went wide, but she didn't seem to care. "I know what happened, Dee, but not how you felt about it."

Being honest with herself, Dora felt like she was dying to see Red Hood again. She was anxious to hear his voice, to talk to him. Red Hood had hinted that he had grown up on Park Row like her, so she wanted to know who he was—his name, if they had met before—she was almost certain she had. But just as much... she wanted to see his face and his body again, and run her hands all over him—and she wanted his hands, his lips, and whatever else all over her body too. However, she was wary because she had been drunk at the time... and horny. It had been _years_ since she was last intimate with a man and Red Hood stirred something within her that she was having trouble holding back.

She told as much to Rochelle, in less direct words.

"Wow, you're really smitten, aren't you?" Rochelle said.

"Smitten?" Dora wasn't sure what she meant.

"I think you might be falling for this guy."

Dora couldn't deny that she was physically attracted to him, and interested in his identity, but... was she attracted to him emotionally? "How can I be? I don't even know his name. I haven't really seen his face. We've spent no time together."

"There's more behind the mask, behind the guns, and behind all the killing, Dee, and I think you know that," Rochelle led Dora over to the window, careful not to let the contractors overhear. "There's a who and a why under that red bucket, and it's vibing with your who and why—name and face be damned."

"You think so?"

"I ship it. I'm on board _SS Red Hood x Dora_ ," Rochelle said with a smile. "When are you going to see him again?"

"I have no idea. We didn't really get a chance to swap phone numbers or anything like that. I don't have a bat-signal or anything like that to summon him. He just kinda... drops by whenever I need help."

"Note to self, find a red searchlight." Rochelle laughed. "Oh, and speaking of dropping by."

The front door chimed as a tall old woman walked into the Alibi. Leslie Thompkins.

"Leslie? What are you doing here?" Dora went to greet her.

"I was passing by on my way to the clinic and I saw the construction. I know things haven't be going so well for you lately, but I was afraid you had sold the place until I heard you talking. Did I hear that right, Dora? Are you involved with the Red Hood?"

For a second, Dora was incredulous that she had been overheard, then she noticed that the window she and Rochelle were standing by had no panes on it. "I, uh..." Leslie's glare of disapproval was scorching. It was precisely why Dora hadn't told her mother, to avoid the same judgement.

"I'll go tell the guys about this window," Rochelle said, walking off. Dora looked at her desperately, urging her to stay with just the expression on her face, but Rochelle just mouthed, "Sorry."

"Dora, what are you thinking? He's a criminal. A murderer!"

"Leslie, listen, he's not like that. He helped me out a few times—"

"Helped? How? By killing people?"

"It was self-defense," Dora pointed out.

"Then why does he avoid the police? Why does he wear a mask? Would your bar be like this if it weren't for him?!"

"I nearly died. I wouldn't _be here_ if it wasn't for him," she said, trying not to raise her voice. "He didn't trash the bar, the the cartel did. Red Hood's done nothing but help me."

Leslie gripped the strap of her bag tightly. "At what cost, Dora?"

"What do you mean, it cost me nothing!" But as soon as she said that, a jolt of realization struck her.

Red Hood originally wanted 25% off her total revenue, but after he sold the cocaine Carla had been running, she was off the hook. How come she never thought of it before? The "cost" had literally been flooding Gotham with drugs, even if it was to bougie brats on the Upper West Side. As much as Leslie had a soft spot for low-income minorities, Dora wasn't about to tell her that.

"Dora, think about what you're doing," Leslie urged. "Is the survival of this bar really worth getting in bed with a crime lord? Think of your family."

With that last remark suspended in the air, Leslie left the bar, leaving Dora with a sinking feeling in her chest that was getting heavier by the second. Leslie hadn't meant to make a double entendre, but her choice of words caused a thought to occur to Dora. What did Red Hood really want from her? Did he really care about her, or was his support and affection just a front in order to make her comply with his racket? With men, he had no choice but to use force and bribery to get his way, but with women... all he really needed with his charisma. Was she the only female business owner in Park Row he had wooed?

* * *

 **Commentary**

Right so... this took forever, I know. It's been precisely 426 days since I posted the last chapter, and about 736 days since I posted the first. Move aside, MidnightDaybreak, I am the trashiest of trash.

Needless to day... I've been busy. Most of Fall 2017 through Spring 2018 was consumed by my first year of grad school (getting my Master's Degree in Education). It was intense, to say the least. I was stressed out and overworked. My mental health, self-esteem, and self-assurance was at an all time low, I dare say worse than when I was fighting cancer. YES, THAT'S RIGHT, I SAID IT, working full-time while going to grad school is more stressful than having cancer and staring death in the face! Cuz at least with cancer, either way it goes, there's a chance of sweet relief, whether you overcome or fail! (Don't freak out, just a little bit of gallows humor... although I'm still serious.)

Anyway. Here's Ch 10. Not much commentary to add other than to apologize that it's mostly transitional filler despite making you wait so long. If you see any mistakes, let me know cuz no one beta read it for me this time. No promises, but I'm trying to write and post two more chapters by the end of July. Wish me luck.

P.S. The chapter's title was inspired by the song "Sober" by blink-182. Check it out.


	11. Night Out

**Chapter 11: Night Out**

Dora fidgeted with the zipper of her jacket, feeling completely out of her element. She was standing in line to get into Gotham's most exclusive nightclub: The Iceberg Lounge. In line with her were Holly, Rochelle, and Ben (Rochelle's fiancé). Rochelle was wearing a green dress and suede boots, while Ben was dashing in his navy shirt and black jacket. Holly was the most bold, wearing a form-fitting red dress with strappy stiletto heels. Dora felt completely underdressed in her simple black frock and matte Doc Martens, but having always been a tomboy, it was the best she could muster for the occasion.

"Hey, isn't that the dress you wore to my engagement party?" Rochelle noticed.

Dora looked down at herself. "Um, yeah, it is."

Of course it was. It was the only dress she owned. She typically wore it to her relatives' weddings and quinceaneras but had always gotten a bit of flak for it. _"Black is depressing and moody!"_ they would say, but Dora had always thought it was elegant and modest. She had endured the trauma of being forced to wear a poofy pink dress to her own quinceanera, and vowed to never wear anything as flamboyant again. Her father had understood. For her fifteenth birthday, he had given her a cropped leather jacket, which she was wearing now—and she was glad she did. It was a chilly night. She could see goosebumps raise on Rochelle and Holly's arms.

"Oh my god, I'm so excited. Thanks for coming, guys!" Holly chirped as they moved up in line.

"Happy to!" Rochelle said.

"Thanks for the invite," said Ben. "Happy birthday, by the way."

"Yeah, no problem..." Dora mumbled. She hated clubs and would not have come if it wasn't a special occasion. "Um... Holly," she said, careful to keep her voice low, "how exactly are _you_ supposed to get into the club?"

"Oh, relax, Dee. I've got a fake ID." She flashed a laminated card from her clutch handbag.

Dora inspected it, surprised by the quality of the forgery.

"It's actually real," Holly said, proud. "Borrowed it from a friend."

The girl in the photo, Karon Brubaker, age 22, did bear a resemblance to Holly, except... "Her hair's pink," Dora said.

"The license is a few years old, so if I'm asked can just say I got sick of the color. It does say Karon's natural hair color is blonde."

Dora handed back the card with a frown. Would it be enough to fool the bouncer? Then a pang of guilt struck her. Here she was, effectively endorsing the type of behavior she would scold Carla for. What kind of role model was she? "Listen, on second thought, I think I'll sit this one out..."

Holly reeled on Dora. "Hey, no! Don't go! Dora, please! Tonight's special! I promise! You won't regret it!"

"But..."

"If you flake out on my birthday, I'll never forgive you." Holly glared.

Dora looked back at her, withering. It was so hard to believe that Holly was only turning seventeen. At times, she seemed more worldly and experienced than she was. Which wasn't necessarily a good thing, Dora decided. _As long as Carla never finds out._ "Fine," she said.

"Here we go! We're next!" Rochelle exclaimed, prancing up to the bouncer.

They each presented their IDs to the bouncer, with Dora holding her breath as he examined Holly's card with a flashlight. Holly didn't seem bothered by the scrutiny and carried herself with the utmost confidence. In the end, they were let through without a hitch, to Dora's relief.

Once they were inside the Iceberg Lounge, Dora noticed something. It wasn't the white, blue, and black themed decor, or the massive ice sculptures and shimmering water fountains the club was known for... it was the music.

It wasn't the typical club music she was expecting, the thumping EDM she had always associated with nightclubs... it was... _metal_.

Blaring from all the speakers at full volume was fast-paced, distorted, screaming, _hardcore_ metal—precisely her favorite kind of music.

"What the fuck," Ben shouted over the din.

"Not what I was expecting," said Rochelle, a smile on her face. "But I like it."

Dora was still speechless, trying to reconcile her expectations with the reality that surrounded her. A smile was growing on her lips.

Holly laughed. "I just _knew_ you'd love it! It's Ballroom Blitz!"

"Ballroom Blitz?" Ben asked.

"Yeah," Holly squirmed, barely containing her enthusiasm. "It's the rock and metal night the Iceberg Lounge hosts every other month. Like, it's obvious that EDM is super popular in the club scene, but the promoters also know that Gotham has a hardcore metal scene that's underserved, so they play metal music every once in a while."

Dora looked over at the dancefloor where a full-contact mosh pit was roiling—people running in circles and shoving each other to the rhythm of the music. On stage, a band was performing and all the black-clad members were headbanging.

"Damn," Rochelle cursed, tapping her heels. "Wish I brought better shoes."

Dora smiled, glad she had decided to wear boots.

"Follow me, guys. I've got another surprise!" Holly led them across the club, through the writhing crowd, to a flight of stairs cordoned off and guarded by another bouncer, burlier than the last.

"VIPs only," he said.

"My name's Holly Robinson, I'm on the list."

"Can I see your ID, Miss Robinson?"

Holly reached into her clutch, but suddenly froze, hesitant. "Um... Sorry, I... must've lost it."

"What are you talking about?" Ben asked. "You just had it at the door a minute ago. I saw you put it back into your bag—ouch!" Rochelle had elbowed him.

"No ID, no entry."

"But mister, I have a reservation..." Holly nervously adjusted the straps of her dress, 'inadvertently' exposing more skin and cleavage.

The ruse was ineffective. "Yeah, a Holly Robinson is on the list, but I can't be sure you aren't poaching someone else's rez without seeing your ID first. Club rules. Sorry, miss."

"You know what? That's okay," Dora said, eyeing the mosh pit longingly. Everyone was jumping to a catchy riff. "We don't need the VIP treatment to have a good time."

"But it's my birthday! I want table service!" Holly whined.

"It's your birthday, Holly?" asked a smooth female voice. "You have to revel in style, if I have anything to say about it..." Dora turned back to see an astonishingly _beautiful_ woman descending the stairs. She had short dark hair and wore a tight black dress that put Dora's own black frock to shame. Tall, slim, and pale, she was everything Dora wasn't—Dora couldn't help but feel envy. The slim woman touched the bouncer's shoulder and looked at him with her shimmering green eyes. "She's with me, Butch."

The man's ears reddened. "Of course, Miss Kyle." He fumbled with the rope and waved Holly past.

Holly pranced toward the woman and embraced her tightly. "Selina! Thanks for the save!"

"My pleasure," she said, returning the hug and looking at everyone else with a verdant magnetic gaze. "These are your friends?"

"Yeah, they're with me."

"Butch," she said simply, and the bouncer ushered everybody along.

As they all ascended the stairs, Holly chattered about something indistinct with Selina up ahead. Dora was amazed by her grace and poise. It seemed like Ben was just as interested in Selina, if not more, judging by the way he was watching her walk up the stairs. Rochelle nudged him a little too hard and he tripped down a step.

Selina led them to a private loft with couches and tables that overlooked the dance floor. Before they even settled in, a shot girl came by with a tray of martinis.

"We didn't order those," Dora told her. She had a strict budget that night and would rather have a whiskey sour for her money than watered down gin.

"Don't fret," Selina said, taking a glass. She took a seat, crossed her legs, and sipped her drink—all in a series of mesmerizingly fluid motions. "Compliments of the house."

"Thanks," Rochelle said. "Do you work here?"

Selina handed a glass to Holly. "No. I'm... _acquainted_ with the owner, so all my friends drink free." She clinked glasses with her. Dora wondered if Selina knew that Holly was underage.

Ben sputtered some of his drink. "You're friends with the Penguin? Oswald Cobblepot, I mean."

Selina smirked. "We have a... _working_ relationship. And speaking of—" She checked the little watch on her slender wrist. "I must be going. I have work to do."

That piqued Dora's interest. If Selina didn't work for the Iceberg Lounge, but started this late at night, then was she a prostitute like Holly had been? At first glance, Selina seemed a little too classy to be a common hooker, but then Dora remembered Holly mention that her new madam was branching out into the high-end escort business.

As Selina stood to leave, Holly grabbed her hand. "Oh, don't go, Lina! Stay and celebrate with my birthday with us!"

"Holly, darling, don't you think you should be honest with your friends about the reason you brought them here?" Selina said with a smirk.

Holly faltered.

"What does she mean by that?" Dora asked.

Selina smirked at Dora's comment but said nothing. Instead, she bent down and laid a kiss on Holly's lips. It only lasted a second, but Holly didn't back away, accepting the kiss as if it was no big deal. Not only were Ben's eyes bulging, so were Dora's and Rochelle's. When Selina pulled away, she pinched Holly's chin and said, "I'll see you soon, kitten."

"Take care." Holly waved as Selina walked away, and Dora thought she saw a look of concern on Holly's face.

There was a pause. Everyone sipped their drinks.

"So... is Selina your girlfriend?" Rochelle asked (what everyone was thinking). "Like, your _girlfriend?_ "

"What?" Holly scoffed, waving her hand dismissively. "No... She took me in for a few months in when I had no place to go. She's a really good friend. An older sister, like you guys."

"You kiss your friends like that?" Ben asked, with an eager look at Rochelle and Dora. Holly giggled.

Rochelle was a little taken aback, her cheeks reddening. "No, I never..."

It made a some sense to Dora, though. She recalled how flirty Holly was with everyone in general, even when she was "off-duty." Dora decided to change the subject before Rochelle got anymore uncomfortable. "So what did Selina mean about being honest with the reason you brought us here?"

"Oh, that," Holly said, avoiding all their eyes. "Right, so I have a confession to make." She hesitated and took a sip of her martini. "It's not really my birthday."

"What?" Rochelle said.

"Wait, so you're not even seventeen?" Dora asked, incredulous.

Ben was almost bug-eyed. "You're... _sixteen_? What the fuck?" Apparently he hadn't known she was even underage. It seemed like he was looking at Holly in a whole new light—self-disgust.

"Ugh." Holly rolled her eyes. "I was afraid this would happen. I was hoping you'd all be more drunk when I told you, but Selina ruined it for me... So just do me a favor and drink up." They all looked at her, deadpan and noncommittal. Holly sighed, "I'm not telling you guys anything unless you drink, so chug! All of you!"

Everyone paused a second to consider, but ultimately downed their martinis. As if on cue, a shot girl appeared to bus their empty glasses and take their new orders.

Dora placed an order for a whiskey sour, then asked, "So what are we here to celebrate, if not your birthday?"

"This," Holly reached into her bag and pulled out a hefty wad of cash, bound by a thick rubber band. "I just got my first payday from Red Hood, and it was more than a decent wage."

"Whoa, how much is that?" Ben asked.

"I honestly don't know," Holly said, tossing the wad between her hands. "It's in small bills like tens and twenties, so I kept losing count, but it's at least a few grand for a month's worth of work."

"I thought you weren't turning tricks anymore," Rochelle said, looking concerned.

"I'm not, but since I set up the dates, run the phones, run the site, and turndown the rooms for the brothel, Ma Gunn gives me a little cut."

"A little?" Ben scoffed, eying the wad jealously.

"Are your clients pissed off about the raised price of everything?" Dora asked.

"Actually, prices haven't changed much," Holly answered, eating the olives that came with her new martini.

"Then how are you getting paid more?"

"Red Hood takes a _way_ smaller cut for himself than Stan ever did, so the girls make more money while the johns pay roughly the same. The only things the johns complain about now are all the bouncers lurking around and the extra charge for a date outside of the brothel."

Even though Dora didn't totally agree with prostitution, she supposed it was some consolation that Red Hood had made his own business somewhat ethical and safe for his workers.

"So how much is Red Hood's cut exactly?" Rochelle asked.

"Fifteen percent."

"Is that low?"

Holly laughed. "As opposed to the seventy-five percent that my last pimp Stan was keeping for himself? Fuck yeah, it is."

"Makes sense," Ben said. "Fifteen percent is the standard for talent agents in other industries, so why not prostitution? Seems fair."

While Rochelle and Ben began a conversation about whether prostitution should be legal, Dora brooded, feeling more odd by the second that the man she had almost slept with was technically a _pimp_. She was bitterly reminded of her conversation with Leslie. What if she wasn't the only woman Red Hood had seduced?

As the debate heated up, Dora scooted nearer to Holly. Hoping not be overheard, she whispered, "So... how's Red Hood doing?"

"What?" Holly looked surprised.

Dora was just as unnerved that Holly didn't know what she was talking about. "Red Hood, have you seen him?"

"You're saying _you_ haven't seen him?"

"I—Should I have?"

"I mean, you're fucking him aren't you?"

"I'm not!" Dora said, trying to keep her voice down. "I haven't seen him in over a week; not since that night you walked in on us."

"Wow, really? You'd think after having you topless and ready to go, he'd come back around as soon as possible to, uh... take care of unfinished business."

Despite her modesty, Dora lamented, "Right? It's weird! That's why I'm asking you!"

"Wow, you're really hankering for a good fuck, aren't you, Dee? When was the last time you got laid?" Holly asked.

Dora glared at Holly, who recoiled and said, "Sorry, Dee, I haven't seen him much."

"I thought he was your pim—your boss," Dora said.

"Nnyeah, sorta... Now that I think of it, Red Hood's more like the owner of the brothel. Ma Gunn's my direct boss. I hardly ever see him, to be honest, and when I do, he only talks to Ma."

"Really? Why's that?" Dora asked.

"Because he's busy, I assume." Holly sipped her drink.

A lump formed in Dora's throat. She drank some of her whiskey to get rid of it. "Busy ... doing what?"

"Come on. His whole vigilante-slash-crime-boss thing. He's practically the owner and CEO of a criminal organization." Holly studied Dora's face for a moment, trying to gauge her meaning. "Oh, no. Don't worry, Dee, he doesn't sleep with any of the girls."

Relief washed over her. "He doesn't?"

"I mean... he's had plenty of offers, but as far as I know, he's turned everyone down. The girls have no idea why, but I think I'm the only one who does." She nudged Dora, smiling.

Dora knocked back the remainder of her whiskey sour and signaled the shot girl for a refill.

"Hey," Holly said, wrapping an arm around Dora. "I'll try to give him your number the next time I see him. Okay?"

"Don't make it seem like I'm... y'know." _Desperate._

"Well, you are. I've never seen a girl as tightly wound as you, Dee." Holly laughed, hugging her. "Don't worry. I'll be chill about it. But hey, I've got good news."

"Yeah, what is it?" Dora doubted it would improve her mood.

"Rocky, this involves you too." Holly tapped Rochelle, pulling her attention away from the conversation she and Ben were having. "I know stuff is pretty tight at the Alibi, and it's been hard getting the ball rolling again, but I think I know someone who's willing to help you out."

Dora's immediate decision was to decline, no matter who it was. She didn't want to owe money to anyone anymore—she already had enough debt—to the banks, to Red Hood. Most importantly, being in debt to a criminal was what got her father killed. Still, she was curious. The bar had never attracted investors before, only bougie realtors that wanted to buy the whole Montgomery building just to gentrify it. "Who's this angel investor?"

"Ma Gunn," Holly answered.

"You mean your madam?" Rochelle asked.

Dora grimaced, shaking her head. "No, I don't—"

"Wait a sec, guys, hear me out. I think it's a good deal—"

"What does she want?" Dora interrupted. "Part ownership? A percentage of the profits? I won't do that."

"No, listen! Ma just wants to pay you to perch one or two girls in your bar every night, but they won't be turning tricks or nothing. They'll be more like saleswomen than working girls. It's just advertising. Like, 'Hey, are you looking for a good time? I have friends that want to party.'"

Dora's adamance faltered. She didn't want her bar to turn into a brothel, but... under both Kosov and Black Mask, hookers (like Holly) picked up johns in her bar all the time without her permission, and she never got a kickback. She would now. Plus, with Red Hood as their pimp, she was more certain that these girls were consenting and free—not coerced or trafficked.

"I mean," Dora looked at Rochelle. "As long as I don't catch anyone having sex in the bathrooms, the pantry, or my office... it might be okay."

Rochelle shrugged, but seemed to agree. "Sounds like it might be a good deal. Depends on how much this Ma Gunn chick pays you."

Dora looked back at Holly. "Set up a meeting at the brothel. I want to talk to Ma Gunn myself."

"At the brothel, really?" Holly asked.

"Yeah, I'm curious. If she wants to do business on my turf, I'd like to see hers."

"Alright, then. I'll let her know and get back to you." Holly hailed the shot girl, and ordered another round of drinks for everyone. "Now for the last order of business before we go mosh our asses off."

"What's that?"

"I want to rent an apartment in your building, Dora," Holly said, looking into her eyes with earnest. "Please, I know I'm only sixteen, but I don't want to keep couch surfing until I'm eighteen."

"Why don't you just go live with your parents?" Ben asked.

All three girls reeled on him with disapproving glares, projecting the message " _that's not an option_ " loud and clear. As Ben withered under Rochelle's rant about abuse, Dora considered it. It wasn't ideal, but filling a vacancy in her building would really help her financial situation. Another tenant paying rent in addition to Ma Gunn's kickback would relieve the pressure she was under by a fair amount.

"Okay, it's not legal," Dora said. "But I think I can convince my mom to let you squat in one of the empty units. It has to be month-by-month, though, in case we run out of vacancies and someone wants to rent a flat the legit way."

"Oh, Dora! Thank you!" Holly squeezed Dora around the middle tightly and kissed her on the check. "This is so great, we have to celebrate—and right on time!" The shot girl had come around with a fresh round of drinks. Holly started drinking hers while taking off her heels. "Let's show those boys in the pit how it's done!"

"All right, I'm on board!" Dora said, removing her jacket and lacing up her boots.

"Give me your shoes," Rochelle told Ben.

"Hey, Dee," Holly said, leading them all down the stairs. "Maybe you can reel in a guy that's not a kingpin fighting a gang war."

* * *

 **Commentary**

This chapter is mostly filler and exposition to set up what's coming next... and trust me, it's good. If you liked the Catwoman cameo in this chapter, I'm set to do it one better very soon.

Also, if you haven't noticed until now... Yes, the Holly that's been in story from the start is in fact the Holly Robinson, aka Selina Kyle's best friend, roommate, sidekick, and eventually the second Catwoman.

Thanks for reading. Stay tuned for more, Chapter 12 is already half-done.


	12. Haunted

**Warning:** This chapter contains mature sexual themes.

* * *

 **Chapter 12: Haunted**

Dora stood in the Alibi. The old Alibi—the way her father had left it. The Alibi she grew up in, with the cracked floors, the splintered tabletops, mismatched chairs, and patchwork upholstery. The way it looked before the massacre.

The lights flickered and dimmed.

She was not alone.

Wisps of black smoke emerged from the shadows, crawled across the floor, and swirled around her ankles. In a sudden gust, all the smoke swept into the center of the room and coalesced into _him_. The man in the red mask.

As if to prove he was solid, he held out his gloved hand. She hesitated, looking into the glowing white eyes of his mask. He removed his gloves and beckoned again. This time she took it.

In a rush of wind, he swept her to the pool table.

He had her pinned. His body pressed hers into the table so she could not get away.

But she didn't want to escape. Before she knew it, she had taken off his mask and her lips were all over his, as eager and hungry as he was.

He lifted her onto the pool table so he wouldn't have to bend down to kiss her. He took off her glasses and ran his hands through her hair, down her arms, until he reached her hips. He slid his hand under her waistband, eager to continue.

But she pushed him away. He got the message. He stepped back, removing his boots, armor, and fatigues. Watching him, she slid off her top to catch up, but before she had tossed it away, he was back, removing her jeans, sneakers, and underwear, caressing and kissing her body as he discarded each piece of her clothing.

Fully naked, she crawled back on the table and he followed. In seconds they were entwined and lost in each other. Her hands roamed all over the scarred skin of his hard arms and back, while his hands kneaded the smooth skin on her soft chest and thighs. It was the best she had ever felt. She wanted it to last forever, but they were going too fast. If they kept on like this, the passion would engulf them in flames and burn out too quickly. But it had been so long since she had been this close to another person. She needed this. The hunger in the way he moved told her that he needed it too.

She pushed him away to allow them both to breathe, to pace themselves, to feel each other. She cupped his face and directed his gaze at her. He was fully unmasked for the first time, but his features felt familiar, as if he had never worn that mask in the first place. His eyes were pale blue, almost gray.

His movements finally slowed and she slowed down with him. They savored the moment, and each other. She was losing herself in his eyes.

Then without warning, he flipped her over and pinned her to the table, massaging her neck and shoulders with his mouth. She felt his hot breath on her back. He was rough. The table beneath her was as hard and unyielding as he was. But she didn't mind. She loved it. The pressure was building and release was so close.

Something moved in the corner. He didn't notice, but she did.

A heavy-set man lurked by the bar. There was nothing above his shoulders. He was holding his own severed head in his hands. It was glaring at her.

With empty eye sockets. Oozing blood.

Dora shrieked and tumbled off the pool table. Her lover dissipated into a cloud of black smoke. The cloud roiled and swirled, growing into a turbulent haze that engulfed the whole barroom, casting everything in shadows.

Seven more men materialized around her to join the first, their loud breathing raspy and wet. They were ghouls, misshapen and broken, riddled with bullet wounds, and covered in blood. She recognized them all. Their faces have been haunting her for weeks.

"Go away!" Dora screamed. "It wasn't me! I didn't do anything!"

A broken man shambled forward from the crowd, holding out a gun by the barrel, urging her to take it. He grunted something apelike she could not understand.

"No, I don't want to..." she pleaded.

He limped closer, his voice hacking. He thrust the gun at her. Her father's Colt.

She looked at his face. She knew this one especially well. The bloody hole in his cheek where she had shot him.

It was him. Her first kill.

He smiled at her recognition, blood dripping from his shattered grin. Glassy white eyes leered at her exposed body.

"No, don't..." She crawled away, trying to cover herself, but she bumped into another body. She looked up.

It was Leslie, clad in a bloodstained labcoat, glaring at her with a face full of contempt and loathing. She shouted, her voice thunderous and deafening. " _Whore!"_

Dora jolted awake.

Her heart pumped so hard she thought her chest would burst. Her ears rang and she was covered in sweat.

She threw off the covers, and put her feet on the ground. The cold concrete on her bare soles refreshed her a little, and she remembered where she was. The cellar underneath the bar, sleeping on the cot. Her father's hideout.

It all came back in a rush. Putting the finishing touches on the bar. Unpacking the liquor, printing the menus, setting up the cash register. Begging promoters on social media for a mention. The bar would re-open later this week, but there was still so much to do. She had been too tired to walk back home, even though Rochelle tried to insist on getting an Uber. Dora argued that every penny counted, so she decided to crash in the cellar. It happened often these days.

Peeling off her sweaty tank top and tossing it away, she stood. At the sink, she splashed cold water in her face and chest, to dispel the turbid thoughts and feelings twisting inside her. Sheer guilt and utter shame... and unrelenting lust. Altogether she felt... dirty. The ghost of Leslie's voice echoed in her head. " _Whore!_ "

So many people killed in such little time, while she watched—and what had she done to save them? Nothing. In some cases, she had almost prayed for their deaths. Yet, here she was, yearning, longing for the man that had killed most of them, and helped cover up the one she killed herself.

Despite her hopes the nightmares would fade away with time, they persisted instead. It was always the same cast of ghouls, but the person berating her rotated. Leslie, Carla, her mother, Rochelle, Holly... her father. They were getting worse, and more frequent, all while the sex with Red Hood was getting hotter and rougher, and her climax was getting closer.

The bottle of whiskey they had shared was still on the coffee table. The expensive as fuck Lagavulin that was older than either of them. She hadn't touched it since that night, but now she took it and gulped down a long swig.

It burned in her throat the whole way down, but she didn't mind. It hurt in the best way. It tasted like him. Its scent was on his breath the last time they kissed.

Dora washed it down with several handfuls of water from the sink. There was lots to do tomorrow and she couldn't afford to be hungover.

As she laid back down on the cot, drowsiness was already enveloping her, and Red Hood edged his way into her mind. Shirtless, unmasked. In her dream, she had seen his face and recognized it. It was the first time ever. He had beautiful blue eyes that felt comforting and familiar to her. However, his features were already fading away. She pinched her eyes shut, trying to recall his face, but she couldn't recall them, as typical of dreams. What did it matter? She didn't really know what he looked like, it was just her horny imagination running wild, desperate for intimacy.

She didn't let it frustrate her, because still seared and permanent in her mind was the feel of his body, the smell of his hair, and the sound of his voice. She let those memories play as she slid her hand down her stomach... to the place he didn't have the chance to touch the last time they were together.

* * *

 **Commentary:**

I took on a personal challenge with this chapter: _Just how sexy can I make it while not breaking FFnet's rules against pornography?_ Their biggest rule (in simplest terms) is against any graphic description of genitalia engaging in a sexual act, which I think I avoided. I personally think this is the cleanest sexy scene I've ever written, but those of you that have read my other work, feel free to compare and let me know.

I know this was a short chapter, but the scene that comes next was getting too long. This scene right here was also a long time coming, because I realized (almost too late) that I never properly addressed how witnessing the murders of so many people affected Dora mentally and emotionally. Maybe I'll make recurring nightmares a thing in the second draft. I'm now thinking of just posting scenes as I write them, instead of trying to unify multiple scenes under a theme as a chapter. That way, you guys wait less for chapters. Thoughts?


	13. Moving Day

**Chapter 13: Moving Day**

"Pull, Carla!"

"I _am_ pulling!"

"Well, pull harder!"

"Dora, I can't. I'm tired."

"Woman up, and fucking _pull_! Dale! Uno, dos, y... Arrgh!"

"Arrrgh!"

A resounding _snap_ emitted from the couch as Dora and Carla wedged it into the apartment.

"You..." Holly lamented, leaning down and inspecting the frame. Through the fabric, she noticed it had snapped somewhere. The whole couch, once sturdy down on the ground floor, was now wobbly and almost gelatinous. "You ruined my couch. Do you know how much I paid for this?"

Carla backed up to a wall and slid down, exhausted. "Not much? It was a used piece of shit to begin with, so get over yourself, Hol. It's not much worse off." She ran a hand through her sweat-drenched hair, pulling back the black and teal strands against her scalp. "At least it's in here now."

"Is that it, though?" Rochelle asked, just as sweaty. "That wasn't much." She gestured at the bed, dining table, chairs, and giant TV.

"I don't own much stuff, to be honest," Holly said. "Everything we moved in here, I bought off of Craigslist yesterday. I've got a few boxes of small shit to bring over from Selina's, but I can do that myself tomorrow."

"Good," Dora groaned.

"I didn't know your building was a walk-up. And that the apartments were so _small_ ," Holly said, looking around the tiny flat. "I always wondered why your family didn't just live in your own building, but I get it now. There's barely enough room for a couple."

"I dunno," said Rochelle, looking around. "Morgan and I could make due. It's not much smaller than our flat two blocks down... If Dora cuts us a deal on rent like she did you, I'd move in."

Holly's "new" apartment was a studio, like the other dozen units in the Montgomery building. Just two rooms: a main room that served at once as a living area, bedroom, and kitchen; and a tiny walled-off bathroom with a standing shower not big enough to bath in. The floors creaked when stepped on. Cockroaches crawled in and out of a network of cracks that adorned the walls.

"I told you how old the building was a ton of times," Dora told Holly. "You've heard me complain about it, and you come around here three or four times a week. You never noticed it was a narrow building with no elevator before you decided to move in?"

"I only ever hung around your bar..." Holly began, but pinched her nose. She closed her eyes and took a breath. "Well, whatever the case, it's better having my own place than just someone else's couch, so we're done. No regrets. So thanks! How about something to eat? On me?"

"I've got food downstairs in the Alibi, if you're hungry," Dora offered. "The re-opening isn't for a few more days, so we've got the run of the place, no interruptions."

"Maybe I don't know how it works here in the States, but aren't flat-warming parties supposed to happen _inside_ the flat you just moved into?"

"This little dump of a place isn't suited for a party, Rochelle," Holly said, and quickly added, "No offense, Dora."

"None taken. As assistant super, I wouldn't let you throw a party in here anyway."

"How about the roof?" Carla suggested. "Fresh air sounds really good right now." She wiped sweat off her forehead.

"I like that idea," Holly said, sliding down next to Carla on the floor and looking out her sole window. "The night sky, the cityscape. Sounds like a great place to chill." She bumped shoulders with Carla and the two shared a look.

"Um..." Dora hesitated.

She didn't like going up to the roof of the building unless she had to. Every time she did, she was reminded of her father's attempt at suicide. She wasn't there to witness him jump, only recover him from the dumpster he had landed in unintentionally. Still everytime she looked at a ledge up there, she pictured a shadow of her father stepping off.

Carla and Holly exchanged an impatient look, and Dora realized that the two girls were less than two years apart. Fourteen and sixteen years old. For them, the roof was a more appropriate venue for a party than a bar. "Alright. Fine. The roof it is."

"Well, now that's settled. What pizza place?" Rochelle asked.

Immediately, Dora, Carla, and Holly voiced their choices, all different; all increasing volume as they asserted the reasons why their choice was superior. Rochelle stood flabbergasted as the debate waged on, then tried to mediate as the discussion heated up to almost comical levels of pettiness and nuance. Rochelle learned ordering pizza in Gotham City wasn't to be taken lightly.

After several minutes of argument, Dora shouted, "Okay, listen to me. Let's say all three places are equally as good. Nope, _shut up_!" She held up her finger, demanding silence and attention. "Dan, the owner of DiDio's, is an old friend of my dad's. I always get a huge discount from him, even if I don't ask, _plus_ it's only right down the block so we won't have to wait long."

"Money isn't an issue," Holly insisted, holding up her rubber-banded wad of cash.

"Holly, take it from someone who knows a thing or two about money and how quickly it disappears." Dora stepped toward her and kneeled so their eyes were level. "You can't be sure what the future holds, so spend your money _wisely_ and save when you can. Especially in the line of work you're in."

There was grave weight in Dora's words, which somehow cooled the tempers in the room. Holly groaned. "Fine, you win. DiDio's it is."

"Alright!" Dora said, hopping on to her feet. "I'll go get the pizza myself, so we don't have to tip for delivery."

"Good idea," Rochelle said. "I'll keep you company."

"Get the table and chairs set up while we're gone." Dora tossed Carla her keys.

#

* * *

Dora and Rochelle stepped out of the lobby and onto the sidewalk. It was day, but hard to tell. The street ran north to south dividing two rows of multi-story buildings, with even taller ones on the blocks beyond. This meant most of Park Row was persistently cast in shadow during the day, and it felt like night always descended early. People made their way along the sidewalks no matter the hour. Some hung outside the building entrances and on street corners, in their own conversations, but with a wary eye on any passerby. Cars drove along the cramped one-way road, competing for parking along the curb.

The street seemed different nowadays. It felt inexplicably safer, despite the fact that most of its residents were involved in some type of ongoing criminal business—whether they were victims or perpetrators. With Red Hood running most of organized crime in the borough, even illicit activities seemed less dangerous. Lately, it was easy to tell who worked for him, because they wore red—of course. The most popular way to rep the Red Hood Gang was to wear a red hoodie or jacket, but Dora would see the occasional red hat, red shoes, or red t-shirt. Although she was supportive, Dora deliberately avoided wearing red. Not only did she hate gang colors and gang culture, she didn't want Detectives Bullock and Montoya to think she was involved with the Red Hood Gang, in case the GCPD were still watching her.

Dora and Rochelle passed by the front of the Alibi. A large banner hung over the plate-glass window, advertising: " _REOPENING FRIDAY - HALF-PRICE DRAFT BEER & WELL DRINKS."_

"When did you put that up?" Rochelle asked.

"This morning."

"Do you need help setting up?"

"No, my mom and I got it covered. Take time off till Friday if you want," Dora said, and stopped. She put her hand on Rochelle's shoulder. "And listen. I really appreciate all your help during this whole mess."

"No problem, I was happy to do it. Sometimes I think you forget that I'm not just your employee, but also your best friend."

"Well, either way, I promise to pay you back for all the work you put into the rebuild, just once the cash starts flowing again. Hopefully this half-off promotion works."

Rochelle laughed and pulled Dora into a tight hug. "Oh god, thanks! I was so afraid to ask. Morgan and I really needed the money, but I didn't want to stress you out. You already have enough to deal with."

"Don't worry about. I'll feel much better once the Alibi's up and running again. I just want things to get back to normal."

"Well, as normal as you can get while dating an active criminal," Rochelle teased, nudging Dora as they walked.

"How many times have I told you that we're not dating?"

"Friends with benefits then."

Dora rolled her eyes.

What use was it trying to correct Rochelle? Dora herself didn't even know what she meant to Red Hood. She didn't know what he meant to her either.

#

* * *

The appetizing scent of baked cheese and dough wafted from under the lids the boxes. "Hurry up, I'm hungry," Dora urged. She and Rochelle were back in the Alibi, having just returned from DiDio's. "Wait, what are you putting in there?"

"Well, er..." Rochelle looked down at the little plastic crate she had packed with cups, ice, and drinks. "I've got some ice, Coke, Club Soda, Bud, Angry Orchard, Blue Moon, Smirnoff..."

"Why the hell are you bringing up all that booze for?"

"Erm... cuz it's a party?"

"Carla and Holly are _minors_ , Rochelle. You're a bartender, you should know better."

Rochelle looked incredulous. "Dee, where were you last weekend? I coulda sworn you were at the Iceberg Lounge with us, because then you'd remember that _Holly already drinks_." She spoke each word slowly for emphasis. "Holly can out-drink us both under the table. Hell, she probably knows more about men than both of us together. Why are you being such a stickler now?"

"Because Carla's with us tonight."

"What difference does that make?"

Dora glared at Rochelle. "Because she's my _sister_. Because she's fourteen years old."

"You put in almost as much effort looking after Holly as you do Carla. Isn't it a bit hypocritical that you don't mind Holly drinking underage, while you won't let Carla do the same?"

"Well, I _do_ mind that Holly drinks, but unfortunately, as much as I love her, I don't control her life. However, I _do_ have a say in Carla's."

"Come on, I know you're not that naive. Carla drinks, too."

"And smokes tobacco, and marijuana, and crack. Whether still, or in the past, it doesn't matter. She's _fourteen_. I..." Dora paused, a twinge of shame tightening her chest. Her eyes began to water, but she held onto the tears. "I didn't pay enough attention to Carla the past few years. I was so busy with school and the clinic and trying to help my dad recover, that I didn't notice my little sister needed me to be a proper role model."

"That's not on you. Your mum—"

"My mom tried, but she had her hands full with work and my baby sister Mercy. You met Mercy, she has special needs."

"Oh, that's right..." Rochelle said, looking sorry. "It's still no one's fault—"

"Look, it's fine." Dora traded her pizza boxes for Rochelle's crate and removed the alcohol. "Don't worry about it. I'm not mad, just... My dad was an alcoholic, and I'll be damned if I let my little sister become one too."

"Gotcha, Dee." Rochelle smiled softly. She bumped elbows with Dora as they walked next door to the apartments' lobby. "I wish I had a sister like you looking out for me while I was growing up. If I had, I probably would've stayed back in Melbourne."

"I'm glad you're here, though, Rochelle. I don't think I could have survived this long in Gotham without you."

"Please, you survived through six months of anarchy after the earthquake."

"Yeah, but I had my dad with me back then."

On the way up the stairs, they talked about the earthquake and how Monty used his building to house and protect victims in the aftermath, and how Dora got close to Leslie while helping with her humanitarian efforts. Melancholy took over. She thought of how close she was to her father and Leslie then, but also how estranged she became from her mother.

They reached the rooftop landing. Hands full, Dora kicked the door open. Cool night air rushed into the stairwell, refreshing after climbing five flights of stairs. The sky was so black, it was impossible to make out the stars. Taller buildings flanked the Montgomery building on both sides. Their upper floors had easy vantages of Dora's sparse rooftop.

The back half of the rooftop, near the alley and the fire escapes, housed all the air conditioning units. The front half of the roof faced Park Row itself, and had an uncovered wooden canopy strung with lights. Underneath were barren brick planters—no flowers, just weeds. A tall water tower loomed overhead on rattling scaffolding and piping. Its side bore letters that once said "Montgomery," but the paint had since faded away and gotten covered by too many gang tags to distinguish it anymore. Right below the water tower was a shed Monty had built to store tools, parts, and supplies for the super.

Dora looked at the deserted rooftop, brows knit. "I thought I told Holly and Carla..."

"... to set up the tables and chairs, yeah," Rochelle said. "I heard you say that."

"Maybe they're still down in the apartment." Dora put down the pizza boxes. "I'll get everything set up. You go find them."

As Rochelle walked back to the stairwell, Dora went to the shed where the folding tables and chairs were stored.

Something clattered inside the shed, then an indistinct voice groaned, "Don't! Stop!" It sounded feminine, out of breath, and desperate.

"What was that?" Rochelle asked.

They heard a something thud on the floor. The rustling and whimpering continued. At least two people were in the shed, doing... Dora was afraid to imagine, but she knew either Carla or Holly, or both, were in trouble inside. Her heart sank, weighed down by dread. The Escabedo Cartel must have sent a sicario for revenge. It had only been a matter of time and Red Hood was not here to save her.

The situation was in her hands, no time to call the cops. She had to maintain her composure. She carefully placed the crate down and held up a finger to her lips, signalling Rochelle to be silent. Drawing a folding knife and a can of pepper spray from her jacket, she beckoned Rochelle back. Ever since the night of the shooting, she carried them everywhere. She gestured Rochelle into position by the shed, but remained silent. Tossing her the knife, Dora nodded at the door.

Rochelle nodded back tensely, gripping the knife with white knuckles. It was clear she didn't know how to hold it, but some backup was better than nothing. She snuck to the door of the shed and grabbed the handle.

Dora counted down with her fingers. _Three, two, one..._

Rochelle pushed the door open and stepped away. Dora rushed into the shed, pepper spray at the ready.

What she saw made her lower the weapon.

Carla was pinned against the wall, moaning and breathless, her legs wrapped around...

 _Holly?_

Holly massaged the crook of Carla's neck with her lips while her hands maneuvered inside Carla's shirt, so passionately that tools fell off the pegboard behind them.

* * *

 **Commentary:**

I didn't expect this to get so long. In my plot outline, chapters #12, #13, and #14 were all a single chapter, but as I wrote them, they got longer. (If you haven't noticed, this happens to me a lot.)

I found that this was the perfect opportunity to not only develop some characters (like Holly and Carla), but also expand on the Montgomery building, which I almost consider a character in and of itself. I wanted to emphasize that while Dora's family owns a whole building in what is basically New York, it doesn't mean that they're well off, as most real estate owners are expected to be nowadays. Before now I only portrayed the exteriors, the Alibi, and the cellar in detail, but seeing as the whole place is a memento of Dora's father, and her livelihood not only depends on the revenue from the bar, but the apartments upstairs as well, they needed some screentime. This was unabashedly inspired by season 7 of _Shameless_. Fiona Gallagher is a key influence on Dora's character, if you haven't noticed yet.

And this isn't needless filler and exposition. I'm trying to set up some stuff here that will come into play later. For instance, I'm planning for the rooftop to be part of an important set piece in the ending (and a little sooner as well). I just hope it's enjoyable.

Faves and feedback welcome!


	14. From Shadows

**Chapter 14: From Shadows**

Holly and Carla continued snogging for several moments while Dora stood there—stunned and unable to speak. The two girls were so consumed with each other they hadn't even noticed her barging in.

Rochelle walked in and guffawed—loudly. Only then did Holly break the embrace. Carla pushed her away, a blush glowing on her face. Holly on the other hand didn't seem at all embarrassed. A smirk tugged on the corner of her mouth.

"So, Dee." Holly wiped her lips with a thumb. "Are we even now?"

It took a second for Dora to understand. _What are you talking about? I never made out with_ your _sister... Oh._

The realization dawning on her, she glared at Holly with wide eyes, trying to convey: _You better not tell Carla about me and Red Hood._ Whether or not Holly received the message, Dora pointed between her and Carla, asking, "How long has this been going on?"

Holly stepped forward. "Okay, Dee—"

"No," Dora snapped, holding up her hand. "I was talking to Carla."

Carla shuffled on her feet nervously, buttoning up her jeans. "Holly and I have, uh... been hanging out for a few weeks. We met the night I was running product for the LU. The night the sicarios trashed the bar and tried to kill us, remember?"

"Yeah, I remember."

"Holly got me out of there. I..." Carla looked at the ground. "... I was a complete mess. Scared shitless. Holly brought me back to my senses and made sure I got home safe."

"I know, I told her to. And I was grateful for that." Dora locked eyes with Holly, but expressed nothing. "Go on."

Carla continued. "After that, we started seeing each other a lot. At first, it wasn't on purpose. We just ran into each other around the Alibi, during the rebuild, y'know? We'd walk home together sometimes."

"I was just trying to keep the heat off her," Holly said. "What's left of the cartel and the False Facers are still at war with Red Hood. They want payback for the coke they think Carla stole, but they also think that Red Hood is keeping tabs on you, me and Rochelle. Like... his enemies attacked us _twice_ , right? And every single person that did ended up dead, _twice_. Actually, in my case, it was three fucking times. Gangbangers are too afraid to fuck with us now. As long as Carla stays close to one of us three, she's safe."

"I..." Dora's resolute disapproval faltered. "I didn't think she was in danger anymore," she admitted. "I thought Red Hood won over Park Row, became head of the mob, and that was that. I was so focused on getting the bar running again, I didn't realize there was still a war going on."

"That's okay. You had a lot to deal with," Holly said.

"It's not okay. It's my responsibility to look after my family. I'm sorry, Holly. I never asked you to escort my sister around."

Holly stepped closer to Carla, a small smile on her face. "You never had to ask. I wanted to."

Carla held Holly's hand and they interlaced fingers. "Yeah, at first we stuck together just for safety. Then it started being fun. Then that led to... this. You were so busy rebuilding Dad's bar, Dora, that you never noticed."

Dora stared at their entwined hands and studied their body language. It was serious between the two of them. "Why didn't you just tell me?"

"It's still fresh," Holly said. "We're just figuring things out."

" _I_ was figuring things out. Figuring myself out," Carla said.

"What do you mean?" Dora asked.

"I wasn't ready to come out yet."

Dora scoffed. "Carla, I don't care that you're gay. I care that you hid this relationship from me."

"Actually, I'm bi," Carla corrected.

" _I'm_ gay," Holly added.

"Um." Dora paused, looking back and forth between the two of them, digesting the distinction.

Rochelle finally spoke up, looking confused. "But Holly, your job... Your old job, I mean."

Holly rolled her eyes. "I was straight for pay, Rocky. You'd be too if you did what I did for a living."

"Whatever!" Dora finally shouted, waving her hands to dispel the confusion. "Gay, bi, straight for pay. It doesn't matter! I'm cool that you're bi, Carla. I'm not cool that you _lied_ to me all this time."

"I never lied!"

"Omission is just as bad as lying! How many times have we talked about that?"

"Whatever, I couldn't tell you! You know Mami, she'd freak the fuck out, and you always such a snitch!"

"I'm not a snitch!"

"You tell that pendeja everything."

"I don't!" Dora insisted honestly, to her own discomfort. She probably hid as many things from their mother as Carla did, but of course Carla didn't see it that way. If their mother ever found out how close she had been with Red Hood... Dora didn't want to think about it. "And don't call Mami 'pendeja,' you have no idea the sacrifices she and I have made for you. You can't—"

"Mierda, what fucking sacrifices?"

Her temper finally ignited. Dora broke out into a flurry of rapid, heated, unintelligible Spanish. She jabbed her finger into Carla's chest, emphasizing a point no one could understand. Rochelle had to pull her back, because Carla looked ready to hit her.

"Be honest, Dora," Holly said, holding Carla back. "It doesn't bother you that Carla's in a gay relationship. It bothers you that she's in a relationship with _me._ "

Dora opened her mouth to speak but her mind was blank.

That was all the confirmation Holly needed. "I knew it."

Dora shrugged off Rochelle's grasp. "Okay, fine, yeah. I'm not totally cool with it. Holly, look... You're my friend. I know you're a good person, and I love you, but you're involved with some... let's say 'pretty shady' people."

"And you're not?" Holly snapped back.

Carla looked at Dora with narrow eyes.

 _Don't go there._ Dora warned Holly, using only a searing look.

Holly did not mind and carried on. "Oh, I see what it is. You think I'm not good enough for your sister. Is that it? You don't want her dating a dropout homeless hooker that fucked the men that killed your dad? Huh? You think I'm a bad influence? Well, that's not who I am anymore, Dee, and I thought—I _hoped_ —you of all people would understand! That I did what I had to do to survive in this crapsack city! That I never wanted to be that person! That I've changed since... Since..."

 _Red Hood_ , Dora assumed. "I'm not saying that..." she said, but realized she had been saying exactly what Holly was thinking. If her little sister was dating someone, Dora wanted it to be someone who wasn't a criminal, even if that person did bad things for good reasons. Her chest tightened with shame knowing how hypocritical she was, lusting after Red Hood, but she still wanted the best for her little sister. She wanted her little sister to be better than her, to not fall for an outlaw that would ruin her life or get her killed.

Dora backed up and leaned against the wall, dazed. Her brain was whirring, trying to reconcile all the contradictions and hypocrisy.

"Dee, are you okay?" Rochelle asked, rubbing her back.

"I'm fine." Dora's attention snapped back to the moment. "Don't take this the wrong way, but a month ago? You'd _both_ be bad influences on each other. A hooker and a drug dealer. Carla, I know you've left the LU behind, but Holly, you're still work for an illegal brothel."

"It's still a far cry from what I was doing before," Holly said.

"But do you see where I'm coming from? No reasonable parent would want either of you dating their kid," Dora said. There was hurt in Holly's face, but also a measure of understanding. That's what she wanted: some concession. "But okay, Holly, you've got a point, and I'm sorry. You've both come a long way. You both know the consequences of running with thugs and messing with the law, so just do me a favor?"

"What's that?" Holly asked.

"Be careful and keep each other safe. Can you do that for me? Watch each other's backs. That goes for you, too, Carla. Look after Holly. If anything happens to either of you, call me ASAP."

The two girls exchanged a long look. "We promise."

"Thank you." Dora let out a breath she didn't know she was holding.

Holly and Carla enveloped Dora in a hug, and she felt a massive weight lifted from her chest.

"Hey," Rochelle said, breaking the silence. "I guess it's not just a flat warming party, but a coming out party too. All the more reason to eat this pizza before it gets cold."

#

* * *

Pizza and soda pop did a surprisingly good job of breaking the ice, especially once the "best pizza in Park Row" debate reignited. Rochelle's boyfriend Morgan showed up with a box of beers, some playing cards, and his goofy sense of humor, lightening the mood further. His reaction to Carla and Holly's relationship was an awkward pause and "that's hot," which sparked an entertaining series of reprimands from Rochelle about his male gaze and how it was disgusting he was looking at two underage girls in such a way. Morgan groveled for forgiveness, and Rochelle eventually let him know that she was just taking the piss out of him. To Dora's gratitude, Morgan supported her when she refused to share the beers he had brought with Carla and Holly.

After several games of gin and poker (with Holly winning most often), Rochelle and Morgan told everyone good night and headed home. Dora and Carla played one game of war to determine who would stay back to clean all the mess and put away the furniture. Carla won, but Dora didn't mind. Her little sister appeared tired anyway.

"How about you stay here tonight?" Dora asked.

Carla perked up a bit. "What, you're really okay with me sleeping here?"

"Yeah, why not?"

"That's... surprisingly cool of you. Mami would never let me stay the night over at a boy's house."

Dora narrowed her eyes. "I... don't understand what you..."

"Hear that, Holly? Dora says I can stay with you tonight!"

Holly was by the ledge of the roof, waving goodbye to Rochelle and Morgan. She turned back. "What, really? Great!"

"No, I meant with me in the basement," Dora tried to say, but Carla and Holly were too busy hugging and celebrating to hear. They discussed what movie to watch and suddenly Carla didn't seem so tired anymore.

Dora paused and thought for a few moments. As her older sister and the adult in charge of Carla, was it her right to dictate the terms of Carla's relationship? Was there a double standard for underage same-sex couples? There was no risk of pregnancy, but Dora felt that fourteen years old was still too soon. Had she and Holly taken it farther than they had in the shed? Was Carla a virgin? Either in the lesbian sense or traditional sense? What even counted as full sexual intercourse for lesbians? The implications made her head spin.

"You can stay with Holly tonight, but I just have to talk to her first," Dora said loudly, interrupting their discussion. "Alone."

Holly and Carla exchanged a look, but agreed to separate. Carla walked to the stairwell, looking back the whole way, but eventually left.

Now alone with Holly, Dora said, "Look, I don't know how sex works with lesbians—"

"It's not that hard to figure out, Dee." Holly looked almost insulted, but Dora could tell she was joking.

"I'm not talking about the... the physical mechanics or whatever, I'm talking about all the messy emotional stuff. When it's between two adults, sure, it's simple. Well, it's _not_ always, but... you get what I mean. It's just... when it's between two teenagers, it's not so clean cut..." She didn't know how to explain.

"I don't get what you mean," Holly said, frowning.

"I don't know what I mean either," Dora admitted, frustrated. "I'm just trying to say that if it's not too late... take it slow with Carla, okay? She's still a kid. _You're_ still a kid. Just... make sure she's _ready._ And wait for her if she isn't _._ "

Holly took pause at that. She knit her brows and locked eyes with Dora for a long moment. The two were gauging each other's sincerity, and they both knew it.

"Listen, Dee. I don't always rush into sex. The way I approached sex with clients is different than how I approach people I'm actually attracted to—people I actually care about. In that line of work, you learn to..." Holly frowned, thinking. "What's the word Selina used... compart... You learn to _compartmentalize_. Separate it all. And it's not that I'm casual with guys, and that I'm serious with girls because I'm gay. I've had female clients. I treat Carla differently because I care about her. I'm the first girl she's ever been with so she's setting the pace right now, and I'm just matching it. I want her to feel comfortable and safe, because I don't want to lose her. I hope you understand that."

Dora smiled. "I do. That's what I wanted to hear."

Holly smiled back, but got so giddy she pulled Dora into a hug. "Need help clearing up?" she asked. "If I take long enough, Carla might fall asleep and nothing will happen tonight. Not that I was planning on taking another base or anything."

A small laugh escaped Dora. She had already started folding the chairs. "No, don't worry. I got this. Go ahead and enjoy your new apartment."

Holly walked away with not another word, her stride showing her good mood.

Finally alone on the rooftop, Dora mentally unpacked and sorted everything that had happened while cleaning up the trash and putting away the folding furniture. The day was as emotionally exhausting as physically—she was drained.

After clearing everything else off the roof, she turned off the canopy lights and left behind just one chair, her dad's lounger. She faced it toward the street, and reclined the back rest so that it faced the skyline. She pulled out a flask from her pocket and took a sip from the Lagavulin inside. The alcohol tickled her tongue and seared her throat. It settled in her stomach, warm. She closed her eyes as a shiver ran down her spine. The rest of her body tingled pleasantly.

Another sip, and she was transported back to that night Red Hood visited. The night she had kissed him. The night they almost... She wondered if he would appear in her dreams like he did every other night. If he haunted her alone, without a pack ghouls, she wouldn't mind.

She had an intrusive thought. Was there an actual possibility she could have a legitimate relationship with the man behind the Red Hood? Did she even want one? All common sense dictated that she couldn't, but that didn't stop her from feeling the way she did. Holly and Carla seemed like an unlikely couple and it appeared like they could make it work. Why couldn't she and Red Hood?

Sirens and gunshots sounded in the distance.

Dora opened her eyes. Looking through the corridor of high-rise buildings, she saw flashing red and blue lights and a helicopter toting a spotlight over the bridge in the distance. There was some type of commotion happening across the river. Knowing this city, it likely involved a member of the Bat crew and one of their rogues.

But that was miles away and Dora knew she could hear about it on the news tomorrow morning, so she wouldn't let it bother her. She took another sip of the whiskey, her mouth lingering on the lip of the flask. Shuddering, she thought about _his_ lips, how they made her jaw melt, how they stole her breath. A different thought crossed her mind. _Is Red Hood in the middle of all that?_

A searchlight turned its beam in her direction, illuminating her rooftop, casting shadows, and searing her eyes just as she opened them. Dora recoiled and fell off the lounger. She took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes, blinking several times. What was that weird shadow on the building across the street?

The searchlight moved on, enveloping the rooftop in darkness again. Replacing her glasses, she looked back at the other rooftop, squinting as her eyes adjusted to the dark. It must have been a gargoyle casting a shadow. That was her cue to put away the whiskey and go to sleep.

She got up and folded the lounger. When she turned to the shed, she gasped, dropping it. Another odd shadow protruded from the water tower. She rushed to switch on the canopy lights, but they wouldn't work.

The shadow moved and Dora flinched.

It was a person, perched on the ledge of the tower.

"Red Hood?" she asked the figure. Almost every time he had appeared, it was from the shadows. The rooftop the first night they met. The second time was through the window of her bar from the dark street. The third time, the last time... He walked into the bar's kitchen from the darkened alley. It had been weeks since she last saw him.

He leapt off the water tower.

But instead of coattails flowing behind him, a long serrated cape unfurled. Leathery wings dominated his silhouette.

"Oh shit." Dora's heart jumped in her chest, pounding.

He glided down to her, breaking his fall by rolling, but he still didn't make a sound. Only a few feet away, it appeared like shadows followed him. He rose to his full height in front of her, much taller and heavier than Red Hood. His face was hidden by shadows, but his eyes glowed white.

He stepped forward, and Dora stepped back. With each step, he backed her into a wal. No escape. It felt like the air pressure increased and gravity got heavier. It was hard to breathe.

"We need to talk," said the Batman.

* * *

 **Commentary**

Nananananana... BATMAN!~

More cameos! I was originally going to wait a while to post this chapter, but I couldn't help myself. Seriously, guys, I've been waiting FOREVER for Batman to appear. The temptation to include him from the start was overwhelming, but I really wanted the story to focus on Dora first and foremost, and Red Hood second. Not only that, but I wanted to give his appearance the epic gravitas it deserved by making it unexpected, cinematic, and memorable. Too many fan fics feature Batman as a main or secondary character. I wanted Batman to be an event, a force of nature, an emphatic turning point for the plot. I wanted a single scene with Batman to change the course of the whole story. It's exactly how his appearances are portrayed in Red Hood and the Outlaws and I wanted to emulate that. I'm writing the next chapter VERY carefully.

On the other hand, I also really wanted to develop Holly and Carla's characters a bit more. I didn't plan on the two teenage girls coming together when I first conceived the story, but while reading No Man's Land, I learned Holly is a lesbian in the canon. The idea struck me to set her up with Carla, given their ages, and it wouldn't go away, and then here we are. I needed a foil for Dora's relationship with Red Hood and for her to experience some real hard criticism for her attraction to him, and the only other couple in the story, Rochelle and Morgan, weren't able to do that.

I hope you enjoy this chapter! And that I didn't cross some line by portraying two underage girls necking on the page. I tried to keep it PG-13. At least in this chapter.


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